


A Reasonable Proposal

by costcopizza



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22903102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/costcopizza/pseuds/costcopizza
Summary: When Philippa Eilhart, court advisor to Vizimir II of Redania, tends to the wounded after the Battle of Sodden Hill, she meets an unlikely ally: Triss Merigold of Maribor. This is the tale of how they change the course of history.
Relationships: Philippa Eilhart/Triss Merigold
Comments: 46
Kudos: 135





	1. Sodden Hill (Prologue)

Triss fades in and out of consciousness after the sound of battle dims, chest wrapped in blood-soaked linens. The gate door, not giving up but wanting to, fire, unbelievable searing pain, fading, being held, eyes unseeing, finally unconscious. _Where was she now?_

She looks up at a small commotion at the flap of what must be the triage tent. There, a woman in armor, the Redanian sigil on her breast plate, wearing men’s breeches and fine boots. Blood-spattered, her single plait coming undone, eyes sharp and focused. 

“Lady Philippa,” one of the attendants in the tent says with awe in his voice. Triss hadn’t noticed him before, lost in thought: ‘I tried, I hope I didn’t fail’ loops in her mind. 

“I’m here to help. Point me where I’m needed most.”

“The woman there needs healing – Triss Merigold. We’ve done our best with practical medicines, but every mage is depleted. She requires more.”

Without a word, Philippa strips off her gloves and rinses her hands in a nearby basin. Sword, helm, and gloves propped beside Triss’s cot, she begins to assess Triss. 

She doesn’t speak, just hisses a bit through her teeth as she unwraps the linens. 

Triss stirs, eyes still glassy from the pain and whatever weak draughts she’s been given by the attendants. Her hand trembles as it closes over Philippa’s, trying to stop the inevitable. If she doesn’t see it, it isn’t real. 

“Brave enchantress, survivor and hero of Sodden. Here’s the proof you held this stronghold against every odd and lived. Now, let me help you.” 

Her voice is low, and her accent refined, and she doesn’t sound unkind – but there’s an edge of chastisement to her words that has Triss more alert than before. Plucking up her courage, she loosens her grip on Philippa’s hand but holds her dark eyes. She nods once. Then Philippa returns to her task. 

* * *

The survivors of Sodden gather in the too-small tent shoulder to shoulder with kings. Across the table covered in maps and evidence of strategies to keep Nilfgaard on the run, Triss finds Philippa. Her armor, which had cut a fine figure, has been replaced with a dark velvet doublet. The hair that was falling from its braid before is loose and draped over a shoulder. 

In the low light of the fires burning throughout the room – a discomfort to Triss though she pushes it down – she sees the tension in Philippa’s stance, in the set of her jaw, in the way she clasps her hands behind her back and lifts her chin like she’s pushing something down of her own.

Vilgefortz says a word and all chatter ceases: “Great Kings of the North. Today, we mages of Aretuza and Ban Ard stand at your sides as protectors and servants. Nilfgaard tried to best us and failed, because together _united_ we are stronger than any southern force.”

Tissaia steps forward to speak, but before she can, Stregobor appears from a shadow, voice slimy: “The Brotherhood is proud to be known as the saviors of Sodden, Your Royal Highnesses. The Usurper would be on your doorsteps if not for the sacrifices we have made.” 

Triss can still feel the heat of the torch on her chest, burning through layers of skin all the way to bone. She can remember watching mages and innocents – brave peasants and children – around her fall. 

She remembers screaming until she couldn’t anymore and then waking in a pain she couldn’t describe. Not only because of her own injuries but because in the cot beside her was Sabrina, body broken until mages with greater reserves of chaos could be called to right the twisted bones and mend her punctured lungs. 

To see Sabrina standing at Tissaia’s side now, eyebrows furrowed, one almost couldn’t believe that she’d been on the verge of death just a day before. Then again, they all had – without the Brotherhood’s support.

“And you have our most sincere thanks, Wise Stregobor,” comes the deep rumble of King Foltest of Temeria, thumbs resting on his belt, “It shouldn’t be lost on anyone that if not for your intervention here, Cintra’s fate could have been our own.”

Foltest looks to Triss then, discreetly nodding his head, “I know firsthand the value of a mage.”

“Then you should know that our losses here were significant. We were not the force we could have been. But still, we gave every inch of ourselves in this battle and now fourteen of our brothers and sisters are dead,” Tissaia finally finds her voice.

“Rest assured, Rectoress, they will not be forgotten. Philippa, the plans—” King Vizimir II of Redania says from his position around the table, inclining his head at Philippa who steps forward, hands still clasped behind her back.

“A stone obelisk with the names of the fourteen etched into its face. It will not bring back those who’ve been lost and there’s nothing we can do to honor them except continue our fight to protect the Northern Kingdoms. But it will give us a place to mourn and remember them.”

“Thank you, Philippa.” There’s a warmth in Tissaia’s voice as she regards her former student. “And thank you for all you’ve done here.”

“Speak no more of it, Tissaia. We don’t abandon our own,” Philippa says, eyes flitting to Triss and Sabrina as she speaks. 

* * *

Philippa finds Triss on the outskirts of the keep’s grounds, against a tree overlooking the river, away from the scorched valley. The sun has set. She carries a blanket.

A small retinue of Northern forces have made camp among the mages. They’ve helped bury and burn the dead. One body is unaccounted for – _Yennefer’s._

The soldiers are loud but not unnecessarily so. There’s no merry making this night. Just the din of young soldiers around fires, swapping stories of home and dreams of adventures to come. They don’t yet realize that this is how wars begin.

“A lovely lintar for your company, Triss Merigold,” Philippa says, blanket draped over her shoulders and a small white bundle of what Triss figures must be food under her arm. “I don’t come empty handed.”

“How could I say no? Have a seat, Lady Philippa.”

“Thank you.”

Philippa sits beside Triss, back against the tree they now share. A respite. She lays the blanket over herself then holds up one side to Triss until she tugs it over the skirt of her dress, tucking the corners.

“Bread, cheese, and... an apple to share,” Triss lists off as Philippa unwraps the bundle.

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

They eat in quiet, stars twinkling brightly in the calm night’s sky, bright enough to reflect in the river below the craggy cliffs. All of Fringilla’s fog has fallen away into the valley.

Philippa slips a knife from her waist and brandishes it with a tiny flourish as Triss holds out the apple.

“So,” the apple now in slices, “I may have arrived late, but I’m seldom out of the loop. Am I correct in saying ‘Fuck Stregobor’?”

“With that knife, please and thank you.”

Philippa smiles sadly. “Same Brotherhood then. Do you ever get the sinking feeling nothing will ever change?”

Triss thinks, takes a bite of apple. “Not unless we change it.”

“I quite agree. Imagine a day when we mages need to act, and instead of calling a vote that hinges on the principles of ancient, bearded men whose unkempt eyebrows perpetually obscure their vision, we simply do what needs doing. The greatest good for the greatest number of people.”

“How can we know what the greatest good is? Surely even Stregobor, backwards and cruel as he is, thinks the actions he takes serve the lesser evil.”

“And he decides that based on hunches, instincts, and assumptions. We’d calculate a path forward based on knowledge and preparation. Nilfgaard is vastly underestimated; its spies are everywhere. Shouldn’t ours be too?”

“Spies?”

Philippa holds her gaze a moment. “It’s just a thought.”

“You’re an advisor to Vizimir. What do you do for him exactly?”

“Whatever he needs.” Philippa exhales and relaxes deeper into her seat against the tree. Her eyes steal back to Triss, taking in her high-collared dress. “How’re you feeling? Is there anything I can do?”

“Are you always this interested in serving others?”

Philippa smiles, incredulous, before pressing Triss, “Come on. How is it?”

“Better now.”

“May I?”

Triss takes a beat then leans toward Philippa. Still, she keeps her eyes on the stars, unable to watch as her chest is bared.

Philippa’s fingers are warm when they come to the snaps at the top of her dress. She works quickly and Triss is thankful for that.

“It looks good. Not much scarring either. I’m sorry you were in pain for so long.”

“It’s alright. You made that day less scary somehow.”

Philippa casts a simple soothing spell and then refastens everything as it was, adjusting the high neck so it sits properly once more. They sit in comfortable silence before sleep takes them there against the tree.

* * *

When they wake, it’s with the pink light of dawn warming their faces. Triss’s head rests against Philippa’s chest, their bodies turned toward each other, legs tangled. It might have been an uncomfortable sleep, but neither cares just then.

Pulling away, Philippa unties the waterskin she keeps at her belt and wordlessly offers it to Triss. She doesn’t stop herself from watching as she drinks.

The colors of the rising sun shift imperceptibly with every moment Philippa watches her – the brave survivor of Sodden Hill.

Triss hands back the waterskin and Philippa replaces its top before setting it aside.

Triss and Philippa hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Philippa pats at her chest with an exasperated smile.

“Come on then. No one will be looking for us just yet.”

Triss wastes no time getting comfy.

Philippa adjusts the blanket over them.

The sun continues to rise.

“Can I kiss you?” Triss says, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“Then yes, you can.”

Triss takes Philippa’s hand, lacing their fingers, and presses her full lips to hers. Not hungry, just seeking comfort. Philippa smiles into the kiss then peppers more kisses along her freckled cheeks. 

The sun rises higher still, and the sound of camp stirring reaches their quiet haven against the tree. 

There are hard days ahead, Philippa knows. Somehow, with Triss’s free hand twisting into her hair, that burden feels lighter – the path ahead, clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an experiment to imagine events between the season one finale and the season two premiere from the perspectives of Triss and Philippa. It combines the events of the Netflix series with the books and tries to imagine an adapted version of Philippa who can seamlessly interact with the show's characters. Most of it's written but still being worked on. We'll see how things go.
> 
> Huge thanks to Stew and Marion for all your help!
> 
> [(Recommended musical accompaniment: some chill medieval tunes)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2NOGFWJy4fzXGosJRT1DrQ?si=hIMMNE89QdCeW3FrOOmTYA)


	2. Cidaris Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having bonded after the events of Sodden, Philippa and Triss put in motion a plan to gather a league of sorceresses committed to magic above all else. Following months of careful planning, the two meet in the port city of Cidaris where unforeseen circumstances expand the scope of their mission.

The sun is high overhead. Jaunty tunes play in the distance as children dart between stalls and carts. The nearby canal sloshes and bare-chested boatmen call out, hoping to catch a gullible maiden's eye.

Triss strides quickly through the busy market, hooded cape billowing behind her. Her coin pouch is tucked into the waist of her belted dress, ornate and fine despite the traveling she’d done. She keeps one hand over it.

The eyes of miserly street urchins track her every move.

 _‘I’ll turn you all into slimy gulping toads,’_ she thinks to herself, knowing that she stands out. Seemingly easy prey in this part of town.

 _‘I’m old enough to be your nan,’_ she wants to say when one particularly bold boy brushes up against her, fingers sticky, _‘and I know every city in the realm better than you can imagine. Just give me an excuse to unhook my belt–’_

 _‘Are you quite finished threatening children? I’m waiting.’_ Philippa’s unamused voice sounds in her mind, echoing faintly on the tail end of her words.

The tavern must be nearby.

It takes some searching, but Triss finds the narrow alleyway that marks her destination, vines creeping across the chasm between row houses. She slips into the dive hidden there. Philippa is easy to spot even from a distance – she’s the only other woman. The rest are Skelligan sailors.

“So, you’ve spoken to Brina,” a winded Triss says as she pulls her hood from her head and slides into the seat next to Philippa. Their table is relatively secluded, off in a corner far from the entrance.

“I have. It was an interesting conversation.” Philippa plays at nonchalance, but her eyes are bright.

“She’s agreed?”

“With a few conditions. We’ll discuss that later, however. First,” Philippa reaches for Triss’s hand, hidden under the table, “Hi.”

Triss grins, lacing their fingers together, and scoots her chair nearer to Philippa’s. Their shoulders brush and they lean into each other, though not so close as to be suspicious.

“Hey. Sorry you had to witness my dark side.”

“Dark side? Do you mean your _geriatric_ side?”

Triss wrinkles her nose, but before she can protest, Philippa pulls her hand free then hooks a finger into her belt. “Are you proficient with this particular weapon? I hear they can be vicious when wielded properly.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“I promise I’m not. Dijkstra was beaten to a chubby pink pulp with one by a spurned lover. I only saw his injuries after the fact, and they weren’t insignificant.”

“In that case, I have nothing but respect for the fine art of belt thrashing.”

“Cheers.”

The women reach for their tankards of ale at the same time. As they do, the strum of a lute draws their attention.

Patrons grumble into their cups, eyeing the entertainment wearily. The afternoon light is hazy as it filters through the few dirty windows not covered by shutters. It’s a dreary sight, and the bard, dressed head to toe in silken baby blues, appears unbothered.

Then he opens his mouth.

This tavern, purposely chosen for its obscurity, is somehow home to the most obnoxious bard in Cidaris. 

* * *

“Finally, some fashionably-dressed women! My target market.”

A boyish voice calls out to them like a song and Philippa can smell the desperation rolling off him.

Triss catches her eye, nervous at the spectacle the bard is making.

He stares at them expectantly.

They stare back.

“Oh! Where are my manners? Excuse me, m’ladies. I am the one and only _Jaskier.”_ He smiles, his curled mustache twitching, betraying his nerves as the two women continue to look upon him with fast fading patience. “You may know me as the loyal companion of the Continent’s most ferocious witcher: Geralt of Rivia. The Butcher of Blaviken? _Toss a coin to your witcher, yadda’ yadda’_?”

“Wait, you know Geralt?” Triss questions, leaning forward. The last time she’d spared a thought for the witcher was the night before the Battle of Sodden Hill, laughing and catching up with old friends – the night before everything went to absolute shit.

He was peculiar, principled, and honest. Safeguarding the tenderest parts of himself, though not very well. Triss remembers their final conversation, how she sensed destiny had so much more in store for him. She wonders if she was right.

 _“Really?_ He rings a bell for you, but I don’t? How am I ever supposed to make money in this foul-smelling city.” Jaskier drops into the chair across from them with a huff. “The entire place stinks of rotting fish.”

A large bearded man one table over shoots them a nasty look but Jaskier remains oblivious. Philippa can guess as to why he hasn’t been able to endear himself to the locals.

“She asked you a question, bard.” Philippa wills herself not to roll her eyes.

“Right, yes. Geralt and I go way back. The best of pals.”

“Do you know where he is now?” Triss asks eagerly.

“Well, not exactly. We parted ways a few years ago. I needed some space. Actually, I have a song about it I could pla—”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” Triss senses Philippa tensing next to her and reaches for her knee under the table, giving it a sympathetic squeeze.

Jaskier slumps his shoulders for just a moment before perking back up. “Are you going to drink that? I’m _a bit_ parched from my performance.”

“Please, help yourself.” He takes the tankard and chugs it in one go. _No beer money then,_ Triss thinks to herself as the pitiful bard’s cheeks inflate with ale. He finally takes one last pained gulp.

Wiping his foamy mouth with the back of his sleeve, Jaskier suddenly narrows his eyes. “Hold on a minute, how do you know Geralt?”

“Geralt and I go way back too.”

“Just how far back?” He pokes a finger in Triss’s direction.

Triss and Philippa share a look. Any truthful answer would reveal that she’s been alive a lot longer than her appearance suggests. And it’s not that Cidaris is particularly hostile to mages, just that they’d wished to keep this visit discreet. Triss shrugs.

“Sorceresses,” Jaskier mutters, deflating in his seat.

_‘I don’t think I can take much more of this.’_

_‘He’s got a big mouth, but he’s not so bad.’_

Philippa scoffs.

“Listen, Whisker or whatever your name is. Your finery is wrinkled and suspiciously stained. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. You’re clearly suffering a minor crisis. What’s a world-famous bard doing in a hovel like this?” Philippa asks, wanting desperately to resolve whatever aspect of this conversation is keeping Triss rooted to her seat.

“My rival in all things, Valdo Marx, has cursed me to this fate. As the court bard of Cidaris, he wields undue influence over the taverns, salons and festivals in this kingdom. A gross abuse of power, if you ask me.”

Philippa sips at her ale, unmoved.

He continues, “He’s blacklisted me from all the finest establishments despite my superior fame, talent, and good looks, and he does so because my sweet Aella cares little for his artless attempts at seduction... Only, Aella refuses to see me until I’m back in the saddle, so to speak. He cucks not only himself but me as well with this nonsense. What kind of demented saboteur would do such a thing?”

Jaskier’s self-pity is interrupted when the city’s bell tower tolls – a signal that Philippa’s contact will be making his way to their meeting place soon.

“The follies of men,” Philippa sighs, standing from her seat at last. “All the best of luck to you. I’ve business to attend. Triss, I’ll see you for dinner.”

She correctly guesses that Triss has already invested herself in his tragic tale of woe.

“You will.” Triss gives an apologetic smile then turns her attention back to Jaskier. “So, about this Valdo Marx.”

Philippa can’t help laughing at the pair as she weaves her way through drinking sailors, out into the sunlight and salty air.

* * *

This wasn’t the plan. No, not to be sat on a crate covered in bird shit having the blistering sun beat down on his face. That was just the unfortunate consequence of having one’s carefully laid plans fucked up the ass, no dog tallow.

You see, they were meant to have been traveling together from the start. Because running a kingdom and its vast spy network was less work – _less risk_ – with two minds focused on it, united in pursuit of a single goal. Instead, they were spiriting coded letters to one another containing the Continent’s most sensitive secrets and planning clandestine meetings in harbor cities that smelled like latrines.

Dijkstra hates it, yet he goes along with it because Philippa Eilhart, bless and curse her name in a single breath, could sell fish to a Skelliger. In this case, she sold insecurity and instability to a man whose only passions in life were control, power, and unfathomably unattainable women. 

The choking call of a gull startles Dijkstra from his thoughts, his large arms crossed snug over his even larger chest loosen. Thick legs crossed at the ankle uncross so his stance might straighten. His tunic, expensive and brightly colored despite his sullen mood, was beginning to soak with sweat the longer he waited. There was no hiding from the afternoon sun.

A young rouster, likely just hitting puberty judging by the crack in his voice earlier when Dijkstra spoke with him, paces ahead, feigning busywork along the docks. He knows better than to look back at Dijkstra if he wants the second half of his pay.

Suddenly, the boy cups his hands to his mouth and _hoots._ Just like that, Dijkstra knows _she’s_ coming. As if on cue, a grey owl swoops down before him and, in a motion that’s almost beautiful, rises tall into the shape of a woman. Eyes sharp, hair wild. She casts a discretion spell and steps closer with a half-smile.

“Cute trick, with the boy.”

“Figured you’d think so. How was Sodden?”

“How was Cintra?”

“Touché.”

“I’m sure you’ve been thoroughly briefed on the situation that awaited our armies, just as I was briefed on the sad fate of Queen Calanthe. However, I do have news too sensitive to have shared through letter. It’s for your ears only, Dijkstra. Not even Vizimir has heard.”

Dijkstra hums and nods as Philippa leans against the crate next to him, hand resting close to his. He notes the beauty of her elegant gloved hands, a few well-chosen rings adorning her fingers. He wishes he could reach for her, like before.

His gaze travels from her hands to her cleavage, bared in a dark doublet unbuttoned in a way most women would find unseemly if they wore doublets at all. Philippa, an utter original, cares little.

She preens under his gaze, he’s sure, and he feels like a fool. The way she wields power… she hopes for weaknesses like these. Her half-smile is almost devilish now. He’ll pay for this later.

“My mind is all business, Phil. Please, continue.”

“Very well.” Her face is suddenly impassive, eyes hooded. Probably still plotting the ways she’ll use his lingering affections to her advantage later. “The sorcerer Vilgefortz, you may remember him, left Sodden not long after the meeting between the Brotherhood and the Northern Kingdoms. If you’re to know one thing about Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, let it be that he’s an incredible fighter. Gifted on the battlefield both in combat and in strategy. According to survivors, he led efforts the first two days then disappeared for hours when the fighting reached its peak, only turning up again once we’d arrived. Our agents scraped together a timeline, but something was missing.”

“I think I can sense where this is heading.”

“Indeed. Not long after, we received word from an asset within Nilfgaard. Vilgefortz is colluding with Emhyr _._ His cultists are hunting something, and Vilgefortz is the key.”

“So, a traitor then.” Dijkstra rubs at his smooth chin. “I know what he’s likely hunting. Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra. Daughter of Pavetta, granddaughter of the Lioness, Queen Calanthe. She survived the sacking and, by all reports, has been missing ever since. Nilfgaard attacking Cintra and claiming that it was their sole target means it has— _had_ something uniquely valuable to the empire. We should get it first.”

“Agreed. If Nilfgaard wants her, it can only be a strategic advantage to do so. I don’t mean to sound like a glib patriot, but any daughter of the North belongs here, not prisoner to a sick southern conqueror.”

“Then our next move is to track her down.”

“I’ve been on Vilgefortz’s trail since Sodden, so if he’s looking for her, that’s two birds with one stone.”

“Good idea, we’ll keep following that lead. Vizimir can be without me for another month—”

“No, I’ve got this in hand. You should be at our king’s side.”

“Phil. We work better as a team.”

“I’ve already got a team. What’s more, I need you gathering information where I can’t, and vice versa.”

 _“Phil.”_ He sighs. “Who’s your team then, if not me?”

“Triss Merigold. She’s Foltest’s advisor alongside Keira Metz and Fercart. She fought at Sodden, and she’s been an important resource.”

“I’m sure she has.” He sounds sickeningly petulant and he knows it.

“Matters with the Brotherhood aren’t your concern, but they weigh heavily on my mind. A handful of northern mages held off Nilfgaard’s forces by themselves and very nearly _didn’t._ The Brotherhood should face consequences for that, as decided by its victims. She’s been a great help in that regard.”

Dijkstra is quiet. This topic is well-trod between the former lovers. On some level, he’s sympathetic, but there are more pressing matters at hand than the Brotherhood of Inflated Egos.

“I know you, Phil. And I’m intimately aware of what you’re like when your focus is on… other things. Don’t let yourself get distracted. We serve one master: the Kingdom of Redania.”

Philippa holds his gaze for a moment, and he worries there’ll be an argument, or worse, a spell cast that sends him screaming into the ocean. Instead, she exhales, nods, and reaches into her blouse. She pulls out a key.

“The Herring Gull Inn. I have a suite, or what passes for one here. Soak in a bath, Dijkstra, and don’t forget to use soap. You stink like a pig.”

* * *

It’s been an hour and Jaskier hasn’t shut his mouth once. For some inexplicable reason, this fact doesn’t bother Triss. In that time, she’s learned so much information she finds useful: the intricacies of King Ethain’s court, who his closest advisor is (Dorregaray, a mage known for his bleeding heart), and which bards he favors (Valdo Marx and, to a far lesser extent, a girl named Little Eye).

She also knows Aella’s social status (upper class), occupation (merchant scion, poised to marry well and oversee the continued success of her family’s shipping company), and… Triss _swears_ she never asked for this… romantic and sexual interests (kinky and kinkier).

“She really had me barking like a dog. Not my thing usually, but Aella has a way of getting one to explore the edges of one’s comfort zone,” Jaskier supplies as they walk along the canals.

His lute hangs from his back and there’s something carefree about him that Triss admires. He’s low-down in the dumps and rocked by a love slipping through his fingers, and even so, there’s a pep in his step. A lightness to him that makes Triss almost jealous. The high collar of her dress chafes under the weight of her would-be envy.

“I’m not here to judge, but there’s a difference between trying a new position and donning the pelt of a skinned animal and then mooing like a cow. You should only do what makes you comfortable.”

“It may not have been my cup of tea, but _she_ was. And perhaps that’s where you and I differ. I’ll do anything for those I love.”

 _Including attending their weird animal dress-up orgies?_ Triss wants to ask, but like she said, she’s not here to judge. _“Love._ And what does she do for you?”

“Plenty!” He spins on his heel and walks backwards in front of her, grinning.

“Name one such thing, my friend.”

“You’ll see. Once we’ve driven out that villainous Valdo Marx and you’re able to witness Aella and I together in our element. We’re quite the pair, actually.”

“I look forward to it.” Triss’s smile is sincere.

Jaskier chatters on, leading Triss to an unassuming building just off the canal. The shopfront is as plain as any other. A well-tended flower box hanging under the window is all that sets it apart. He holds open the door.

“M’lady,” Jaskier husks.

“Please, it’s _Triss._ ”

“M’lady Triss,” he husks again, bowing his head and gesturing for her to enter.

Sighing aloud, she steps over the threshold. Inside, instruments line the walls in neat rows. Some sit on the ground, propped up; others hang in an attractive array, clearly carefully displayed. Along the back wall is a shelf with books and what she can only assume is sheet music.

In the center of the space is a slightly raised platform and on it a desk atop which lay neat stacks of posters, an ink well, and a quill. She ventures closer with caution. Reaching out and spinning one of the posters to face her, she sees none other than the attractive visage of her companion for the day.

“Handsome devil, even in this state. Flip it over.” He comes up beside her, one hand resting on his cocked hip.

There on the reverse side are the incomprehensible lyrics to a song titled ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’. Her mouth opens but no words come out.

“My masterpiece. My greatest hit. My moneymaker – well, besides this—” He winks at her. “My afternoon shall be spent signing autographs for the lovely people of Cidaris. And I am glad to do it. Anything for my fans. I’m a celebrity in a sleepy city. They’ll be flocking here soon, so grab a good seat.”

Triss looks around. There aren’t any actual seats except the one at the desk, presumably for Jaskier.

“Have you advertised this event?”

“Of course. I’ve been putting up flyers for weeks.”

“Right. Well, I’ll let you get settled while I ponder all the many fascinating things you’ve told me.” _And look for a drink._

Jaskier nods appreciatively before taking a seat at the desk. He pulls his lute around and begins to strum. “Yes, do that. Strategy break.”

An old woman cracks open a door in the back of the room, a musty look on her face as she spots Jaskier. The door quickly slams shut again.

“Nevermind her. I paid legal tender renting this space for the afternoon. She can scowl into her piles of money,” Jaskier says airily, not bothering to look up.

A thought suddenly pops into Triss’s head, and it isn’t necessarily a new one: she misses Philippa.

* * *

Jaskier grins as the first fan in line approaches his table.

 _What a success,_ he thinks to himself, smiling at Triss, who leans against a nearby wall with a flute of cheap champagne, plucking at the strings of an instrument with her free hand. She returns his smile.

“Who should I make this out to?” he asks, licking the tip of his quill. In lieu of answering, the fan snatches their poster away. Jaskier looks up, confused.

“You’re a lazy, technically untrained jester who can’t even hold a whistle note. You’re a flop, good sir.” The matter-of-factness stings more than a petty insult ever could.

The queue is no longer a queue but a crowd closing in on his haven, his _table._ A man with a particularly weak jawline and patchy facial hair – little more than fuzz – reaches for the rest of the stack.

“His only half-decent hit was twenty years ago,” someone shouts.

“He’s been alive that long?” a confused voice chimes in.

“My age is no one’s business, and if I wanted to hold a whistle note I could! My vocal range spans five octaves!” Jaskier shakes his finger at the crowd of hecklers.

Patchy Beard turns and marches out of the shop. Everyone follows, including Jaskier.

“Wait a minute. Those cost—”

“Your dignity?” Patchy Beard goads as he dumps the posters in the canal. “You’ve been stung by the Marxist hive.”

“That’s it!” Jaskier yells, charging at Patchy Beard. The pair splash into the canal and the crowd of Marxists gasps in unison.

Triss watches on from just behind the mob, mildly distraught. She sips the last of her champagne then stoops to rest her glass on the cobblestone street.

Summoning her chaos, she holds out her hands. They begin to quiver with effort. Under her breath, she repeats the words taught to her by Tissaia de Vries so many years ago.

Suddenly, the buzz of a swarming cloud of bees fills the air. Valdo Marx’s disciples begin swatting at their own skin, crying out in fear.

“For the love of Valdo, spare my supple skin,” one screams, falling to her knees.

As the buzzing intensifies, the Marxists flee in every direction. And just as quickly as the bees had appeared, they vanish out of the air – as if they were never real. The old woman whose shop hosted Jaskier’s signing peeks out her window, a toothless grin on her face.

With the last Marxist a mere speck in the distance, Triss reaches over the bank to help lift Jaskier onto dry land.

“That was... very brave. Where’d Patchy Beard go?”

“I think he floated downstream after I bit his groin.”

Triss makes a face then snaps her fingers, causing Jaskier’s water-soaked clothes to dry in an instant, the salty water rushing back into the canal.

"Making someone _dry_. Not a trick I’d ever expect to be useful, but here we are."

Triss ignores the dejected bard’s quip. “I’m due to meet my friend for an early dinner. Would you care to join us?”

 _“Please.”_ Jaskier’s once-waxed mustache rests limply on his lip.

* * *

It’s only mid-afternoon in Cidaris. The city is quieter than it was when Triss first arrived, but no less busy. Workers toil. Shopkeepers sweep and smoke their pipes. Children play. Ships come and go, and with them, cargo, goods, and other parcels diffuse through the streets.

There’s a beauty in the bustle and the way the cool wind blows in from the sea. Golden light, flowers in bloom, the sound of seagulls playing on the breeze before breaking for the far-away places only birds go. Triss appreciates it in contrast to Temeria, which always feels cold and stark even in Spring.

The walk from the canals to the Herring Gull Inn is more pleasant than it has any right to be. Jaskier is quieter company, too, though Triss takes no pleasure in that. Instead, she resolves to lift his spirits.

Once at the warm hearth of the dark inn, Triss and Jaskier find seats at a table big enough for three. A young bard softly plies her wares from the small stage, though few take notice. Their focus is on the soup of the day – fresh fish and herbs, seasoned well. The pair order servings for themselves along with crunchy bread and a pitcher of ale to share.

“So, Geralt is your best friend?” Triss asks, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“I thought so for a while. I’m not sure he reciprocated that sentiment, however. It’s starting to feel a little like a pattern.”

“Chin up, Jaskier. Friends go through rough patches, and true friendship can weather any storm. I have a good friend—” _Had_ , a voice inside Triss’s head says. She pushes it down. “—perhaps the best friend I’ll ever have. We often go years without even knowing if the other is alive and well. But, when we finally find ourselves in the same place at the same time, it’s as if the years melt away.”

Triss thinks back to her earliest years as an Aretuza girl. So often, she felt ostracized from and more vulnerable than the older students. Only Yennefer truly took the time to make sure she was finding her footing. A bond like that is unshakable. Triss can’t imagine anything coming between them, least of all distance and time.

“Her name is Yennefer, and I’m not sure when I’ll see her again. But I hold her in my heart nevertheless.”

“Pause.” Jaskier says, who until that moment had been clutching at his chest with a teary eye. That teary eye now bulges menacingly. “Did you say _Yennefer?_ Of Vengerberg?”

Triss laughs, leaning in. “You know her?”

“She might be my greatest enemy – besides Valdo Marx.”

“Impossible. What did you do to her?”

“I resent that. ‘What did she do to you?’ would be a far more appropriate question.”

“Well, what did she do to you?” Jaskier misses the indiscreet eye roll.

“Besides stalk Geralt across the entire Continent until that ended in disaster: picked on me, treated me poorly, said I have crows’ feet,” Jaskier lists with a pout.

At the mention of Geralt, Triss furrows her brow. _Why hadn’t Yennefer said anything?_

“Were they lovers?”

“Yup. Saw it with my own two eyes. _Unfortunately_ ,” Jaskier mutters just before knocking back his mug of ale.

“You mentioned their relationship ending—”

“It’s really not my place to say more.” Jaskier briefly reaches for the bread, before his instincts take over. He leans forward and props his elbows on the table instead, chin resting on steepled fingers. “She wanted a baby and couldn’t because... wombs or something. But he had a Child of Surprise and didn’t care one whit about her – the Princess of Cintra actually, poor kid. There were some nasty words exchanged and then they went on their merry ways after a dragon-hunt-gone-very-wrong. I have a song, if you’d like to hear it?”

Triss doesn’t answer. Just gazes forlornly into her fish soup.

“Why is she frowning, bard?” A stern voice calls out. Triss feels a warm hand on her shoulder then, prompting her to look up. Philippa looks back down at her with concern.

Jaskier picks at his teeth with a thin bone fished from his soup. “I think we’re _all_ frowning. And the culprit? Love, of course.”

Philippa squeezes Triss’s shoulder once then takes a seat beside her.

“Not to make your day worse, but Dijkstra might be joining us.”

“My day has been fine. Plus, it’ll be nice to meet your lesser half,” Triss teases, half-hearted.

Philippa makes a disgusted face then leans closer to Triss. “He wouldn’t stop looking at my chest earlier.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Later—”

“Who are we killing?” Jaskier interrupts Philippa, mid-chew. He remains thoroughly ignored.

The young woman on stage strums an introduction for herself then stands. “Hello everyone. I hope you’re all enjoying the soup of the day. A—” she pulls a small paper from her pocket and reads from it with a squint, “cod and rosemary bisque, best served with the house pinot noir.”

Jaskier claps.

“Anyway, I’m Little Eye and here’s Cidaris Bitch.”

Triss is young for a sorceress, but still, _the music the youth listen to these days..._

_You’re in the shipyard, I light the fire_

_And as Beltane fades away_

_Nothing gold can stay_

Dijkstra finally descends from the rooms upstairs looking considerably less sweaty. He drags out a chair for himself and drops down into it, arms crossed. Introductions are made. Stiff greetings exchanged.

_You write, I tour, we make it work_

_You’re beautiful and I’m insane_

_We’re Continent-made_

Jaskier shouts “I love this song” and begins singing along. A cute barmaid joins him. Before anyone can blink, she’s in his lap. Philippa pushes her bowl of soup away.

_Give me Hallmarc_

_One dream, one life, one lover_

_Paint me happy and blue_

_Normyn Rochwell_

_No hype under our covers_

_It’s just me and you_

“Do you want to help me plan some truly sick revenge?” Triss whispers against Philippa’s ear. She skillfully ignores the barmaid’s tongue down Jaskier’s throat.

The barmaid slaps Jaskier then goes back in for a kiss in such quick succession that even Triss takes notice, momentarily distracted from their whispered conversation.

“Always. Can we discuss this upstairs?” Philippa begs. Triss nods vigorously, takes Philippa’s hand, and leads the way.

_Oh damn, miss you on my lips_

_It’s me, your little Cidaris bitch_

_On the sloop with the neighborhood kids_

_Callin’ out, bang bang, kiss kiss_

“Repeat after me: ‘Yes, Reme. I’m a stupid boy’.” Jaskier repeats the words, lost in the barmaid’s spell. It's the last thing they hear as they make their escape.

* * *

It’s convenient, not pretending to need separate accommodations. Why waste coin on two rooms when they’ll end up in the same bed anyway? Not even because they’re _sleeping_ _together_ – they’re not, and Triss isn’t ready to think about what that means – but because somehow, the burning thoughts that haunt her sleep fade when Philippa is beside her.

It all began under that tree on Sodden Hill, and for however long Philippa is willing, Triss will take her comfort. It’s the only restful sleep she’s promised.

Philippa lets go of Triss’s hand, trailing it along her lower back as she moves past her into their humble suite. She lays back on the bed with a sigh, eyes trained on the mundane ceiling – there’s nothing fancy about the Herring Gull Inn.

Triss closes the door behind them and stands beside the bed, hands already reaching for Philippa’s boots. “Do you want these off?”

“Not yet. Thank you.”

She follows Philippa onto the bed instead. If Triss successfully makes her case, they’ll soon be sneaking into an exclusive soirée catering to the city’s elite. That left little time for naps. Until then, there was still much to discuss.

“How was your meeting with Dijkstra?” Triss asks, voice low and soft in the quiet of the room.

“Quite useful, despite his ogling.” Philippa turns toward Triss, hand falling to her hip. Then her voice fills Triss’s mind, denoting the sensitivity of what she’s about to say: _‘Nilfgaard is searching for Princess Cirilla of Cintra. She survived Nilfgaard’s attack and no one knows where she’s gone. If I had to guess, she’s who Vilgefortz’s been trailing since Sodden.’_

Triss startles at the coincidence. _‘The princess of Cintra?’_

_‘There’s only the one.’_

_‘Cirilla is Geralt of Rivia’s Child of Surprise. He’s the witcher who helped me lift a curse on a striga years ago. Destiny is a powerful force to resist, and if Cirilla is out there, he’s out there too. Their paths have likely already crossed.’_

Philippa absorbs this information without betraying a single thought.

_‘What do you know about Cintra’s royal bloodline?’_

_‘Not much. I was somewhat familiar with Queen Calanthe. You already know Cintra didn’t allow visits from many mages, least of all those in the Brotherhood.’_

_‘Perhaps because they were hiding something. A knowledge held only by the oldest and wisest of us, passed on with great caution and reserve... What I say next, you mustn’t repeat, for our lodge will neither harbor secrets nor betray confidences.’_

Triss nods, hand covering Philippa’s where it rests against her hip.

_‘Lara Dorren had a baby daughter, Riannon. A future queen of Temeria. And through her, the Elder Blood gene passed down unimpeded through the female line. From Queen Riannon to Princess Cirilla. She’s likely a carrier, if not a powerful source herself. We can’t let her fall into Nilfgaard’s hands. Even the empire’s infantry fodder seem to believe, heart and soul, that Princess Cirilla is the Child of Prophecy. They won’t stop until they find her even if they don't know her full potential.’_

_Ithlinne’s Prophecy…_ Triss almost can’t believe what she’s hearing. The idea that the Elder Blood had been kept alive, made its way through the great house of Cintra and ended up in a child of prophecy and surprise – it's preposterous on its face. However, the Continent is full of magic and mysteries she knows better than to question. She wonders what else the cob-webbed relics of the Brotherhood keep to themselves.

 _‘Thank you for trusting me.’_ Triss suddenly imagines this faceless, orphaned princess. Scared and mourning, carrying inside her a terrifying power she can’t begin to grasp. This world isn’t kind to the vulnerable. _‘We’ll find Vilgefortz. And in the meantime, I think Jaskier can be useful. He spent decades at Geralt’s side. He knows his habits.’_

_‘Good idea. I suppose taking up arms in The Battle of the Bards might make it easier to convince him to engage in a little espionage on our behalf.’_

“Ready to hear my plan, then? You’re going to love it.”

Philippa sits up and sighs before looking back over her shoulder at the smiling woman on her bed.

_Who can say no to that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cidaris Bitch shamelessly ripped from Venice Bitch by Lana Del Rey (with slight lyrical alterations)
> 
> Apologies for the very weird turns this fic will take over the next chapter. Blame Stew (and thank Marion it's not worse).


	3. Backdoor Entrances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Triss, Philippa and Dijkstra willing to help, Jaskier finally makes his move against the wretched Valdo Marx. Armed with forbidden knowledge, the foursome exploit every possible weakness to win the day. Victory might be theirs, but at what cost?

A mysterious candle-lit room. Exotic marble walls and floors. Low, plump cushions. Leafy potted trees. Incense burning from hanging ornaments. And in the middle of it all, a large man face down on a pillow, bottom in the air as a woman in a pink pig pelt – ears, snout, and tail included – buries her face between his cheeks. He drools and oinks every now and then when she tweaks his nipple: for it to be good for her, he needs to play his part.

How did this happen, one might ask? Dijkstra hates to repeat himself, but this wasn’t the plan. In fact, he hates this prurient, depraved display as much as the next well-adjusted adult person. The trouble is that as much as he hates it, he’s enjoying himself. The nipple twisting, the odd wet muscle lapping against his puckered hole, the new sights and smells and sensations. No one here is self-conscious. So, Dijkstra, usually circumspect and focused on the task at hand, lets go.

He oinks deep and hard one last time, and just before he can reach the mountain peak, a harried Philippa enters the sex alcove, surprised but resigned to the sight before her. Dijkstra wipes dribbles of spit from his chin, using what little brain power he has left to make himself presentable. Pig Woman ignores the newcomers, assuming that like previous gatherings of this nature, voyeurs were to be expected. She tugs his hips hard toward her mouth, making him gasp.

“Phil, it’s not what it looks like.” His words are slurred and his throat bobs painfully.

“Don’t worry. I was never going to fuck you again anyway.” Her eyes are trained on a random spot on the wall. She tries to collect her thoughts.

Jaskier enters behind Philippa and stops short: _“Wow._ Pigs really will eat anything.”

“We need to—” Triss follows and upon taking in the scene, immediately spins on her heel. Her hands come up to shield her eyes. “Dijkstra, it is of the utmost importance that you get dressed. Quickly.”

Pig Woman is unphased. Dijkstra pulls away from her mouth with a pop and scrambles for his trousers.

* * *

_Earlier That Day…_

The suite at the inn isn’t spacious by any means, but Triss, Philippa, Dijkstra, and Jaskier make do despite the tight squeeze. Dijkstra leans against the hallway door, listening for any would-be sneaks. Jaskier lays on his stomach on the bed next to Triss who mirrors his position. Both their chins rest in their open palms. Philippa opts to stand, hands clasped behind her back as she listens to Triss and Jaskier present their plan, weaving a tale of daring intrigue.

“Just to make sure I fully grasp the intelligence we’re acting on here,” Philippa sets out, looking to Triss and Jaskier, “your hot-and-cold lover is aroused by people dressing and behaving like animals during sexual intercourse. As such, she regularly hosts exclusive parties where guests can partake in this niche fetish in the safety and comfort of her private residence.

“Your rival, the esteemed Valdo Marx, will be attending tonight’s in the hopes of winning her affections… And the Brotherhood’s eccentric recluse uncle Dorregaray of Vole will somehow hear of this, bear witness to Valdo’s deviance, and punish him on behalf of King Ethain? Do I have all the facts?”

“Yes,” Triss and Jaskier say at the same time.

Philippa and Dijkstra share a look.

“Listen,” Triss gets up from the bed to stand beside Philippa. “We know it sounds imposs—”

“Not at all. This is child’s play,” Dijkstra interrupts.

“We could do this in our sleep,” Philippa adds.

“In that case,” Triss claps her hands together, “let’s discuss next steps. First, Philippa and I will draft a letter to Dorregaray, informing him of tonight’s party…”

…

_“Is there anything we should add at the end? Maybe a threat?”_

_“I find that with letters of this nature, it’s best to just state things plainly.”_

_“Write letters like this often then?”_

_“Not as often as I once did. I have underlings for that now,” Philippa says blandly as she leans over Triss’s shoulder, reading along as she adds finishing touches. “Very good.”_

_Triss rolls the letter with blotting paper before folding it into a small square. She then secures it using a thin piece of twine. When she turns to give the note to Philippa, she finds her already transformed, waiting on the open window sill. She tentatively holds out the note. Philippa takes it in her hooked beak and flies off without preamble._

_Blinking at the empty window, Triss thinks to herself,_ That might take some getting used to.

_…_

“Then the four of us will rendezvous near Aella’s villa. From there, Jaskier knows what to do.”

Jaskier gives Triss a thumbs up from his spot on the bed.

_…_

_The sun sets on the quaint city of Cidaris, Jaskier’s favorite place in the world –_ as of this evening. _He deserves revenge for all the hardship he’s endured suffering in Valdo’s shadow, never mind the utter heartbreak of having his custom-printed posters dumped in the canal. And if it’s humiliating to demand recompense whilst donning wool trousers, a shapeless tunic and an itchy toque, he doesn’t give a damn._

_As he nears the side gate of the villa, he channels his every theatrical instinct to get in character: his head lowers, his shoulders slump. He becomes the very picture of a brow-beaten everyman who wakes up each morning smelling fish guts. No one pays him any mind as he slips into the servants' quarters._

_From there, he knows his way to Aella’s boudoir. At the foot of her bed, she keeps a trunk full of prized costumes, including that of a hirikka. A perfect costume for her guest of honor._

_…_

“Dijkstra will have to find his own way in, but that shouldn’t be a challenge for _such_ an expert.” 

_…_

_“Oh my… What a scrumtrulescent snack. Are you heading inside?” a bold Cidarian woman on the street asks, her quick hands wrapping around one of Dijkstra’s meaty biceps. He can’t help but note that the scent wafting from her is a slightly gamey musk._

_“Indeed, I am. Pray tell, what is your name, fine lady?” Dijkstra asks in his most gentlemanly voice. They stand just outside the villa, and Dijkstra knows that if he can get inside as a guest, it will increase the mission’s chances of success._ Provided that the deviants within keep their furry paws to themselves.

_“You may call me mistress. And I shall call you…” She leans in to whisper the rest. Dijkstra’s eyebrows raise and he chances a glance over his shoulder at Philippa and Triss, hoping they haven’t overheard._

_They’re nowhere to be seen._

_…_

“Leave the rest to Philippa and me.”

* * *

The two women move swiftly from the street, shrouded in darkness. They duck into a small arched tunnel that leads to a courtyard surrounded by dwellings on all sides. A large tree blots the stars and moonlight, creating a picturesque canopy over the space.

Through open windows, some lit by candles and lanterns, Cidarians go about their nightly routine. Families and friends sharing meals, parents putting little ones to bed with soft songs that drift on the even softer breeze, and young lovers too caught up in their passion to care whether they can be heard in the tranquil stillness. Philippa is almost amused by the contrast between this – the intangible domesticity sorceresses often long for but understand is beyond their reach – and the profane festivities she’ll be witness to soon enough.

Philippa searches along the walls until she finds what she’s looking for: a ladder to the low sloped roofs. While she could easily polymorph into her owl form and fly up, she has little interest in leaving Triss behind.

“With how narrow the streets are, making our way to the villa from higher ground should be simple enough.”

“Leaping across rooftops in a dress. What could go wrong?”

“Perhaps I should’ve offered to lend you a pair of trousers for tonight.”

“I would’ve looked damn good in them too,” Triss banters from behind Philippa, hoping to disguise her nerves.

“We’ll test your theory soon enough,” Philippa says distractedly, gripping the rungs of the ladder. “For now, just keep a steady grip. I won’t let you fall.”

Once at the top, the two women set off as quickly and carefully as they can across the rooftops. Reaching the narrowest part of the street where the eaves nearly touch, Philippa makes a running jump first. Her landing is precise. Next is Triss, who hikes her dress up to her thighs before leaping across. Philippa catches her as she lands, a few tiles coming loose under her heeled boots.

“Shit,” Triss hisses, holding onto Philippa with a death grip.

“Careful.” The hands at Triss’s elbows gently tug her in the direction of the villa. “We’re nearly there.”

Just as they come to an annoyingly large chimney, they hear hushed voices from the other side. Triss furrows her brow and Philippa holds a finger to her lips.

“…Then she tried to hae me put oan a horse mask. Och, ah said to masel, if anyone ah ken sees me like this, it’s done. Am a security guard, no a dress up doll,” the deeper of the two voices says.

"Ah hear you. Worst part o my week is collecting the pay fae that sadistic cow,” the second guard speaks up from further away. _Skelligans,_ Philippa realizes.

“We should say something. It’s no richt.”

_‘You didn’t mention there being a security patrol.’ Philippa is only slightly exasperated._

_‘Jaskier said it was a normal party in nearly every way. This must be a precaution Aella takes…’_ Triss reaches for Philippa’s wrist, squeezing it lightly. _‘I have an idea. Be ready in case things don’t go as planned.’_

Philippa hesitates for a moment before nodding. She knows Triss can more than handle herself. Triss nods back then begins carefully moving along the narrow overhang, pressing herself against the far-too-big chimney until she’s standing on the flat surface of the neighboring building’s mansard roof. The guards have their backs to her, too busy commiserating.

“Your boss sounds awful,” Triss says gently. The men whip around, reaching for their clubs as they do.

“Halt! You're no comin' any closer. This is private property, hen.”

Triss goes perfectly still, not wanting to spook them further. “I understand. However, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation just now. You deserve better. The privileged few shouldn’t abuse their positions of power, least of all to humiliate the hard workers laboring on their behalf. You put yourself in danger’s way for Aella’s benefit. The least she can do is observe a professional boundary between her disturbing fetish and your need to work to survive.”

The men nod, lowering their weapons. “Aye, but whit else is there? This is the best paying job in Cidaris if you dinnae hae an Oxenfurt degree or a rich daddy.”

“Value yourselves. Life is too short to suffer indignity by a spoiled heiress who would prefer the soft touch of a hoof to a hand. I recommend organizing. Find other workers who feel as you do and together, with one voice, demand better wages and working conditions from the merchant guilds. And if they don’t listen, take your message to King Ethain himself,” Triss lists off passionately, remembering the miners’ strike in Temeria.

“No gonna argue wi that,” Deep Voice says.

“Fair enough, but ah still need this joab. Ah've a newborn at home. We can see about better working conditions after we’ve ta'en her in.”

“Aye, agreed.” Both guards lift their batons once more.

The one not moved by Triss’s sage advice points his baton threateningly, “Where’d you even come fae? Fly by oan a broomstick and see us?”

Before Triss can answer, Philippa cuts in, appearing almost out of thin air.

“Wrong choice, boys.” She flicks her wrist, causing their batons to fly from their hands. “How about a swim to clear your heads?”

A portal opens beneath their feet. Sharp screams are cut off by a single loud splash. Triss sighs. _A shame._

With the poor guards dealt with, they make their way to a nearby roof overlooking the villa. Once there, they crouch low and wait.

Before long, a portal appears out of the blackness of night. Dorregaray of Vole’s purple velvet robes drag on the roof tiles as he steps through. His hair is a grey bird’s nest in desperate need of combing and his light eyes are tired and judging.

 _“Philippa Eilhart._ When an owl delivered that silly letter, I should have known. Why have you summoned me here?” His words are slow, sleepy.

“Deeply honored to have been remembered by name when you so rarely leave your stable,” Philippa smiles, her posture all deference. “Just as our _silly_ letter said, there’s a foulness in your kingdom that needs purging. While we don’t always see eye to eye, your principles when it comes to the humane treatment of other species are unassailable.”

“Animals are being killed for their pelts so that people can wear them as costumes while fornicating. What’s more, innocent, _intelligent_ species like the hirikka aren’t spared. The source of this rot is just under your nose,” Triss adds from her forgotten place beside Philippa, gesturing to Aella’s villa.

“And who might you be?” Dorregaray says, more alert suddenly.

“No one.”

“Well, _no one,_ this does sound concerning. Hirikkas are endangered and far too trusting of people for their own good. Anyone who exploits that—” He cuts himself off, his tone more tense. “Show me inside at once.”

* * *

Inside the villa, nearly every room caters to carnal pleasure. There are large beds and cushions in every corner, with hazy lanterns, candles, and incense burning. On every surface not meant to be fucked on, there’s fruit, wine, and assorted finger foods. People make novel and vigorous use of it all.

Dorregaray, Philippa, and Triss exchange uncomfortable looks as they navigate through the throngs of fleshy, gyrating bodies. The journey down from the top floor of the villa is an experience unto itself.

At last, Triss spots Jaskier carrying a tray of drinks. He sticks out as the only person – other than themselves – who is neither naked nor covered in fur. His smile is bright when he sees her.

“There you are! I saw Dijkstra, but he was pulled away before we could speak. Everything else is going according to plan.” He whispers the last sentence, wary of Dorregaray.

“Where’s Aella?” Philippa asks, stepping closer. She inspects the cups resting on Jaskier’s tray. The thick white liquid on offer makes her nose wrinkle in disgust.

“In the tablinum, beautifully lording over her writhing minions. Oh, to be one of them.”

“Get ahold of yourself, bard. And set aside your ridiculous tray of milks.”

“Oh, right.” Jaskier unceremoniously hands off the offending item to a naked passerby. He then triumphantly strips off his ugly servant’s uniform, leaving only the trousers and shoes. _I shall never again wear wool,_ he swears to himself.

When they find Aella, she’s splayed on a chaise lounge with Valdo Marx at her side, wearing his hirikka pelt proudly. The undulating masses before them moan, bark, bleat, hiss, and meow with Aella mooing her approval at the sensual display, enhanced by the exotic music Valdo performs for the room.

“I sincerely hate to say it, but I don’t think she particularly misses you, Jaskier,” Triss says, wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders.

“I know,” Jaskier sighs, a soft look on his face as he gazes at his love. He leans his head against Triss’s.

Their tender moment is interrupted by Dorregaray stepping forward.

“Valdo Marx,” his once-sleepy voice booms, “I have but one thing to say: _how very dare you.”_

The room goes silent. Aella freezes where she lays. Valdo’s lute drops to the floor with a clang.

“D...Dorregaray,” Valdo stutters, grabbing a fistful of his hirikka pelt. “It’s not what it looks like. She made me wear it!”

Philippa slowly steps backwards out of the room, tugging on Triss’s arm so that she follows, pulling Jaskier with her. They need to find Dijkstra.

* * *

“I only did it to sell my undercover identity. Phil, believe me. Phil?”

Philippa spins, grabbing Dijkstra by his shoulders. She shakes him gently. “Calm down. Finish dressing yourself. There’s no time for this. But to ease your mind, I believe you.”

He hiccups, thick, stubby fingers returning to the buttons of his doublet. Love blooms in his chest.

She rolls her eyes and hurriedly seeks out Triss and Jaskier who are thankfully nearby. The villa, once a sexy kind of chaotic, is now just chaotic mayhem. She can hear Dorregaray shouting and feel waves of his magic rocking the walls. Pelts fly in every direction.

They expected him to be angry, yes. But this angry?

“Jaskier, are you satisfied?” Philippa asks, trying to locate the exit.

“I’m not sure. I think I’m ready to leave, actually.”

“Seconding that,” Dijkstra mutters, pushing past frightened, scattered partygoers. 

A goat man with a patchy beard and a bite mark on his inner thigh steps in front of them, plate of beans on toast in hand. He’d been mid-snack when Dorregaray unleashed his rage.

 _“You,”_ he roars at Jaskier, accessing his inner ibex.

Before Patchy Beard can utter another word, Triss snatches his plate of beans on toast and lobs it at his face. Her aim is true. His mouth gapes.

“I think you could say, you’ve _been toasted,”_ Jaskier replies smugly, arms crossed over his bare chest.

As Patchy Beard wipes bean sauce from his eyes, Triss, Jaskier, Philippa and Dijkstra make a beeline for the vestibulum.

Once outside, Philippa takes a deep breath of fresh air. Not a whiff of bodily fluids detected.

“Beans on toast at an orgy? Monsters,” Jaskier says to Triss as he looks up at the night’s sky feeling lighter than he has in months.

“Beans at an orgy, full stop. A recipe for disaster. We did that party a favor.”

“You two together frighten me.” Philippa draws away from the pair with long strides.

Triss smirks at Jaskier before catching up to Philippa. She links their arms and all he can hear is whispered teasing. _Oh, to be in love._

Dijkstra watches on with a resigned countenance. He falls in step with Jaskier. “Focus on that pretty barmaid from the inn. She only had eyes for you.”

Jaskier smiles at Dijkstra, hands in his pockets. Perhaps he will.

* * *

Back at the Herring Gull Inn, Triss and Philippa settle in for the night. Philippa tends to last-minute correspondences, co-ordinating contacts and transportation at their next destination.

Their time in Cidaris was only ever meant to be brief, and in the morning, a longship will carry them west.

As Philippa pens her missives, Triss soaks in a warm bath pondering the strange day she's had.

When she stepped off the launch at Sodden, she knew the risks. She understood that success would be won at a steep cost, if it was won at all. What she didn't realize was that her life would change irrevocably. 

In fact, she couldn’t have anticipated this version of herself, so far from Temeria and the path chosen for her by the Brotherhood. Now, instead of blindly serving the interests of others, she strives for a better future. And Philippa — whose character defies every petty rumor Triss has ever heard — makes it feel possible. 

Make no mistake: there's no silver lining to the horrors she's endured or the scars she fears she'll never overcome. But life goes on, and she's thankful for this new adventure.

Later, once the bed has been turned down and their candles smothered, they lay side by side under the covers.

There’s one last thought on Triss’s mind preventing her from giving in to the sleep she craves. “It's crazy what people will get up to when they think no one's watching. Do you think in our long, long lives there will ever come a point when we–”

“No.” Philippa interrupts, tired but resolute.

“No.” Triss agrees quickly.

Their sleep is restful and fur-free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justice for the innocent hirikka murdered in cold blood by Sir Eyck of Denesle.
> 
> Eternal gratitude to Stew, especially for the Scottish flavor.
> 
> Endless apologies for this furry interlude. Never again.


	4. Flower of Skellige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With their undfurcover sting operation behind them, Triss and Philippa set sail for the isles of Skellige. There, they hope to track the traitor Vilgefortz of Roggeveen and learn more about Princess Cirilla.

The Great Sea isn’t so great from the deck of a longship. In fact, it’s miserable as hell. Philippa is soaked to the bone and the wind is a stinging kind of cold. It’s a relief when Ard Skellig’s harbor finally comes into view.

That relief is short-lived as smooth waters turn choppy. A fishwife, tall and well-built with cropped hair, spots Philippa’s furrowed brow and leans closer: “Ard Skellig bewails the daughters of Riannon. If you’re going to spew, do it over the side.”

“Sound advice, but I’ve endured far worse without losing my lunch,” Philippa says with a half-smile, thinking of the sick feeling that accompanies traveling by portal. All the same, she appreciates the fishwife’s conversation to distract from the roiling motion of the sea. “Does Skellige mourn the Lioness and her cub?”

“Aye. The young princess, Ciri, spent her summers and winters here, whipping up the young Crach and his pals, besting them at their own games. I've been to the Blue Mountains and back, and never seen a wean as fierce. She would’ve made a ferocious shieldmaiden someday.”

 _She might still,_ Philippa thinks to herself as she nods along with a frown. A convincing enough imitation of sympathy.

Her gaze drifts to the quay where people have already gathered to meet their ship. She looks higher and spots Kaer Trolde, the boozy Crach an Craite’s seat of power. At his side serves his loyal hound, the deceptively powerful Marquard. And the less attention from Crach and Marquard, the better. Their jaunt through the isles would have to be a careful and quiet affair.

Triss approaches from the other end of the ship with a curious expression. She sidles up next to Philippa, their crossed arms brushing. She keeps her voice low as she speaks. “A peculiar old sailor just told me my fur cape bears a striking resemblance to—” Hoping to maintain some propriety, the rest of her sentence is a whisper.

“I hope you praised his astute observation skills, because he _isn’t_ wrong.”

Triss shrugs and wraps an arm around Philippa, tugging her closer – as friends do. “Perhaps that’s why I wear it.”

Philippa rolls her eyes. The fishwife nearby smirks. “Funny. It _does_ look like a woman’s bits. Down there. But furrier.”

Triss and Philippa share a quick look before Triss clears her throat, blushing. “Can’t a lady wear her chinchilla cape in peace? Gods.”

“I meant no offense.” The easy-going fishwife gathers her belongings. They’ll be docking soon. “In fact, I so deeply regret having offended you that I want to offer you both a taste of Skelligan hospitality. Has either of you ever been to one of our natural hot springs?”

“A generous offer, but we’re… _transient_ travelers,” Triss replies. Philippa hums her agreement, though the colder and wetter she becomes, the nicer a hot spring bath sounds.

“If you change your minds, ask around for the sauna that serves oysters. So long.” The fishwife holds her rucksack over her shoulder and salutes before stepping off the edge of the ship onto the quayside.

Triss turns to Philippa. “Were we just propositioned?”

* * *

This _can’t_ be spring.

Philippa wears a heavy cape, tied-up ushanka, leather gloves, and boots. And still the misty morning cold seeps in unabated.

Oil lanterns guide the path along the busy, foggy wharf. Wet gravel and mud and soaked wooden structures. Nets, crates, ship builders, and fishermen and fisherwomen. Skelligers with no true concept of warmth carry on as if there’s only a nip in the air. They whistle and call out. In the distance, Philippa hears a shanty belted while a hammer keeps beat against steel.

She can grudgingly admit there’s a charm to it. The air is fresh, and every breath is invigorating. Still, she wouldn’t want to fly through Ard Skellig’s cold, wet skies.

Eventually she finds the small warehouse she’s been looking for. A man in an apron and thick tunic, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tosses fish into baskets of salt for curing. He doesn’t look up. Philippa stays in the shadows, back straight and hands clasped as she observes.

He tosses the last fish and strips off his gloves. Wipes the sweat from his brow. She wonders how one can sweat when it’s so cold. Digging into the front pocket of his apron, he reveals a coded message written in Philippa’s own hand. She takes it.

“Your man was here a fortnight ago, clearly looking for something. Spent precious little time in Ard Skellig before moving onto Hindarsfjall. The teleportation trail is still fresh. I’ll work out precisely where on the mainland he went after. Just need a few days.” He pulls back on his gloves, lifts a basket of salty salmon. “To a person who knows what to look for, he stuck out like a berserker at a ball. Blend in better than he did unless you want the hunter to become the hunted.”

Philippa holds the letter in one hand while drawing the flame from a nearby lantern into her other. With a waving motion, the letter catches fire. Ashes drift to the ground.

She gives a clipped “Thank you”.

This time she doesn’t worry about wet skies.

* * *

At the other end of the harbor, Triss sits at a bar with parchment and a borrowed quill. Between pen strokes, she nurses a mug of something warm.

_Dearest Jaskier,_

_I said I would keep in touch and, as a woman of her word, I have every intention of doing so. With the few minutes’ downtime I can spare, I thought, why not check in with my new friend? Okay, I confess I’m a prying sort and wish to hear what transpired after we left. Has Aella fled Cidaris? Is Valdo Marx in a dungeon currently? Has the barmaid asked for your hand in marriage? These are the questions that plague me, and I desperately need answers only you can provide. I wish I could tell you what I’m up to, but if I did, Philippa would kill us both._

_Stay out of trouble,_

_Triss Merigold_

Her pen stills. She takes a sip. Two burly men jostle her on the way to their table. Lummoxes.

_P.S. If you see our mutual friend at some point, give him the attached mailing address. Don’t let on how I badgered you for information on his whereabouts and well-being. If you do, it won’t be Philippa you have to fear._

_P.P.S. Destroy after reading._

* * *

Philippa smells like wet feathers when she climbs onto the stool next to Triss. Her foul mood is palpable.

Triss flags down the barkeep.

 _‘I’ve arranged for a short boat ride to Hindarsfjall. From there, we’ll take horses and find where the trail leads us.’_ Philippa’s teeth chatter but her voice is clear in Triss’s mind.

 _‘Is it really so important that we travel this way? You’re_ freezing.’

_‘Believe me, I’d prefer to teleport, if only to lessen the chance of us being seen. But if we did, Vilgefortz would trace the signature from our teleportation trails just as we’re tracing his. Eventually he’s going to discover he’s being followed. We’ll have a head start.’_

_‘So, we’re found out either way?’_

_‘In all likelihood, yes.’_

_‘Then we’ve failed. He’s been able to manipulate every angle of this war since before many of us even knew there_ was _a war. He’ll weaponize the Brotherhood against us somehow, and then it’s over.’_

Philippa chances a look at Triss. She’s hunched over her drink, hand to forehead. Philippa knows she’s responsible. They’re playing a dangerous game that grows more dangerous by the second. And Vilgefortz’s talent for duplicity is frightening even to a seasoned spy.

_‘How do you feel about that?’_

Triss is thoughtful. Silent. After a moment, she sits up straighter and looks back at Philippa.

_‘I just want us to prevail over him.’_

_‘Then we will. If we stay one step ahead, he’ll never know our identities. Only that he’s being watched.’_

Triss nods, then realizes Philippa hasn’t stopped shivering since she sat down.

The barkeep, slight in stature by Skelligan standards, finally moseys to their end of the counter.

“Where might we find the hot spring and sauna known for its oysters?” Triss asks.

He sighs.

* * *

Despite her chattering teeth, Philippa thinks this might be a terrible idea.

She and Triss change on opposite sides of the small space, only venturing closer to help untie this or unhook that. They have a quiet understanding. And while neither woman has ever been particularly shy in life, there’s an invisible boundary.

Philippa hasn’t seen Triss’s chest since the days following the Battle of Sodden. What’s more, she’s sure Triss hasn’t either.

They wrap themselves in towels before walking out into the main chamber. The closer they venture to the hot spring and warm coals of the sauna, the less they feel the lingering chill from outside. After serving so many years in Temeria, Triss considers herself well used to bitterly cold climates – certainly more than Philippa – but nothing can prepare someone for Skellige.

They look around at the dank cave, dimly lit by fire pits and a single shaft of light that cuts through rock. Absent are the ornate slabs of expensive white tile, soft trickling water features, columns, and, of course, state-of-the-art facilities to which they’re accustomed. This is _not_ a luxurious bathhouse in Gors Velen.

Instead, Triss and Philippa find themselves in a natural underground cave system. Cedar mixes with the scent of herbs and tallows. Nude women, older and younger and _many_ covered in battle scars of their own, sit on benches and stools near the steaming rocks. Others relax in a quiet corner by themselves or soak in the hot spring pools.

They drink from horns and eat fresh oysters in between their lazing. Although there’s an atmosphere of calm, the convivial fisherwomen and shieldmaidens swap tales of sea voyages and battle as steam swirls around them.

Seeing them so at ease with themselves takes Triss by surprise. She stops short.

One woman has claw marks running down her face, neck, and shoulder. An old but nasty wound. Another woman's breast is gone. Whether from sickness or torture, Triss can't know. Others have thick scars from arrows and axes. Some are faint. Distant memories, surely. But the ones that are red and new pull at something within Triss.

She can be hurt and angry and not want the world to see any trace of the wound that felled her. The wound that kept her out of the fight when her friends — _Yennefer_ — needed her most. But she can also find peace in spaces like this where she might be understood. 

She unwraps the towel from around her body, folds it, and holds it in her arms. There's nothing to fear among these women, so at peace with their bodies.

Philippa hesitantly follows Triss’s lead, unwrapping her own towel. If her gaze travels lower, it’s only with the utmost respect and appreciation, of course.

* * *

They spot the friendly fishwife from before. She waves them over to her secluded nook. The deep cedar bench sits the three of them comfortably.

Philippa appreciates the sight of her muscles glistening with sweat in the low light.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Hot Fishwife asks with a smile.

“Actually, I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have taken offense to begin with.” Triss clears her throat slightly, forcing herself to suppress memories of Aella’s party. If she ever sees Dijkstra again, it’ll be too soon. “My name is…” She pauses, remembering they have to keep a low profile, “ _Yennefer,_ and this is my companion—”

“Jaskier.”

“Forgive me, but what a silly name.” Hot Fishwife regards Philippa curiously.

“I know,” Philippa says, unperturbed.

“Hail, Yennefer and Jaskier. I’m Sigrid, named for the queen of legend who killed all her would-be suitors and ruled alone.” Sigrid leans in with a laugh, _“We all know what that means.”_

And they do. History loves a virgin queen. Philippa gives a conspiratorial smile. “Thank you for having us.”

“Of course, this space is just for us. Relax, drink, eat. There are more pools the deeper you go into the cave. More private too. Just no hochmagandy in this room, if you please.”

They both nod.

_‘What the hell is hochmagandy?’_

_‘Well, Yennefer, I would assume from context clues that it’s fucking.’_

Triss blinks back, unimpressed.

* * *

They find a pool in the smallest chamber, just large enough for two. On a tray nearby sits a candle, a bushel of dry herbs, a decanter of mead and two horns tipped on their sides.

“I have lived a _very_ long time,” Philippa says with a pleased sigh as she steps into the pool, “and the competition out there is stiff. But this yonic cave of sweaty women eating oysters might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Triss laughs and sits on the edge with her legs in the water. She pours them each a drink then passes Philippa hers.

She lifts the bushel of herbs. Lavender, rosemary and sage: some of her favorites. The earthy, relaxing fragrances recall the coziness of her own laboratory in Temeria. She hasn’t been back since—

Her thoughts are interrupted when Philippa reaches for her ankle, tugging gently. “Join me?”

“Promise I won’t feel Janice the eel brushing up against my leg?”

 _“Promise.”_ Philippa nearly snorts. Triss slips in beside her.

Now submerged up to their chests, they sip from their drinking horns in comfortable silence.

Triss’s free hand glides smoothly back and forth through the water causing soft ripples.

Philippa watches on, gaze following the trail of her elegant fingers. They almost seem to glow. Suddenly there are small sparks shooting out that flower in the water and then bloom up to the surface.

She wonders if there’s a right thing to say in this moment. Not just about her personal underwater fireworks show – impressive in its own right – but about the simple bravery Triss is demonstrating by baring the faint pink scar across her chest.

Sometimes, the words don’t come even when you want them to.

They finish their drinks. Philippa takes both cups and places them back on the tray.

Triss laces their fingers before scooting closer until their hips press together.

“How long do we have here?”

“A few hours. Our boat doesn’t leave until the afternoon. We should reach Hindarsfjall before sundown.”

Triss hums. With mead, magic, and small talk exhausted, the tension becomes pronounced and the steamy air is harder to breathe. Beads of sweat drip down her neck, falling between her breasts. She looks over at Philippa finally, letting her gaze linger everywhere she’s been avoiding for some reason. Some silly reason.

Philippa’s hand comes up to her jaw, pulling her closer until she feels soft lips. A slip of tongue. Then, Triss can’t think anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oysters are something that can actually be so personal


	5. Brisingamen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss and Philippa’s spirits are high as they continue their journey through the isles of Skellige. However, gods and nature contrive to test their patience as they follow the trail to Hindarsfjall.

They’ve been riding along the road in companionable silence for over an hour, happy that their mares are pleasant and keep pace.

There’s little need for conversation when you’re surrounded by so much beauty. Hindarsfjall is lush and green, and everything is speckled in gold as the sun sets. A nearby river babbles as it rushes over rocks and branches. Petrels and cormorants noisily make their way to their sleeping roosts.

It’s a calming end to their day of travel.

Tracking Vilgefortz, however, feels endless. His teleportation trail has led them deeper and deeper inland. The trees grow thicker the further they trot along.

Triss looks over at Philippa, who keeps a single hand on the reins, her other resting on her thigh. Her heavy cape sits nobly on her shoulders, skewed fashionably to display the fine doublet underneath. Perhaps it is odd for a woman to dress so handsomely, but that only makes it a shame more women don’t.

She reaches across the small gap between their horses feeling spoiled from their morning soak in the hot spring pool.

“At the risk of sounding like a romantic, I need you to take off your fancy glove and hold my hand. Right now.”

Philippa stares back, curious but amused. “Fine. If I must.”

She yanks off her glove with her teeth and, after tucking the glove into her belt, grasps Triss’s warm hand.

Much better.

Gold turns to orange and pink as the sun sinks lower on the horizon, glowing as it passes behind trees – and roadside shrines to the gods.

“Is this the fifth shrine to Hemdall we’ve passed, or the sixth?” Triss wonders aloud.

“You’re not a fan, then?”

“You should read my essay on it. They still use it as an example at Aretuza.”

Philippa hums thoughtfully. “I’m not overly familiar with the man.”

“I’m grateful – it’s his wife I’m interested in. Hemdall gets statues and songs for his sons founding the clans. Heulyn gets a mention. You know even Jarl Crach an Craite traces his lineage to her? Her son Grymmdjarr carved Kaer Trolde out of an enormous rock with his bare hands. And she engraved her son Tyr’s blade to protect him in his fight against Yngvar. Hemdall was busy that day, apparently.”

“You’re surely not suggesting he’s getting the credit for her work?” mocks Philippa. She and Triss share a knowing look.

“At least Freya gets her due.”

“They deserve justice and recognition. But that’s the fairer sex’s lot in life. My… _contributions_ to Redania’s welfare are necessarily state secrets. At most, I can be known as a kind of ambassador who helps smooth over misunderstandings with the Brotherhood. Our friend Dijkstra, on the other hand, enjoys great renown as a duke and tactical advisor to the king – with his allegedly honeyed tones. He gets to be the right hand. I must be the left, hidden in shadows.”

“You’ll have company in those shadows soon,” Triss reminds her, thinking of the lodge. Philippa shoots her a small smile.

There’s a sudden commotion from the tree line.

Sticks break, leaves crunch. A low, guttural moan. Finally, a slimy, hunched creature inches toward the road. Few travel this way or this far into Hindarsfjall. Now Triss understands why.

For a moment, she thinks they’ll be able to ride past whatever hideous curiosity slithered out of the river. Instead, it leaps toward the road and swipes at Philippa’s horse, causing the mare to rear up in fear.

The beast’s dripping maw widens as it shrieks, clearly growing agitated.

Triss panics, guiding her own horse away before she can check to see if Philippa is in danger. She hops down and, summoning her courage, turns back to the road.

There, she sees Philippa climbing to her feet, her horse likely having fled after being spooked.

Unarmed and disoriented from her fall, Philippa doesn’t notice another two monsters gurgling as they inch toward her position from behind. Instead, she focuses on the first monster, still hungry for her flesh.

“Hey!” Triss shouts, catching the sorceress’ attention. She drops to her knees, her palms pressing into the dirt and mulch. Channeling her chaos, tree roots burst up from the ground ahead of her, tripping the two beasts before they can reach Philippa.

Philippa grimaces as she materializes a longsword, stepping immediately into a low guard.

Triss hasn’t seen her with a weapon since Sodden, and something in her aches at the sight. This was the soldier at Sodden she’d only seen with an unfocused gaze, delirious from pain. The Philippa who wielded a sword with skill was easy to forget when all the world saw of her was _the mage advisor._

Standing up from the ground, Triss tightens her hands into fists. The roots wrap around the legs of the beasts, holding them in place. Philippa doesn’t waste the opportunity Triss has provided: she lifts her sword and, with a wet squelch, beheads the first of the trapped monsters. As she does, the slow creature from before ambles nearer and nearer until it’s finally within arm’s reach.

Philippa senses this. In one fluid motion, she reverses her grip and heaves her blade backwards into the monster’s chest. It shrieks as it impales itself, its effort to claw at Philippa only serving to make her job easier. She turns and yanks her blade up through its torso, bisecting its upper body. Slimy guts and putrid smelling liquids spill onto the ground before its body follows.

The final monster, still trapped by Triss, moans and lunges feebly. Triss doesn’t faulter. Her grip holds.

Philippa takes her time now. She points the tip of her sword at its chest, waiting and watching as it struggles. Her breaths are labored, and Triss can imagine the fatigue as her own arms begin to shake from holding their position.

Finally, Philippa steps forward and pushes her blade through the monster’s improbable heart. It crumples to the ground with a shriek.

Triss’s arms drop finally, exhausted from adrenaline and spent chaos. She comes up beside Philippa, leaning into her.

“What were those?” she asks, shaken.

 _“Drowners._ I hadn’t seen one, let alone three, in nearly a century.” Philippa’s calm is contagious. Triss exhales and leans closer still. “I’m not in the market for a new occupation but we make a fine team. We could put your pet witcher out of work.”

“No, thank you.”

 _Fuck_ monsters.

* * *

Vilgefortz’s trail ends in a dense grove the locals call Hindar. Hidden within the great thicket is the entrance to a domed temple covered in overgrown moss and ivy. Even trees seem to grow into and out of the structure, which feels ancient in the moonlight.

Triss and Philippa tie up their one remaining horse before approaching.

There’s no real footpath. Just a set of slippery steps up to the temple. Spilling over the steps is a purple flower, so alien in appearance that Philippa can’t resist reaching out to touch.

Before Triss can warn her of its dangers, she grabs for the stem, pricking herself. She hisses and sucks at her thumb.

“Thistle,” Triss says sympathetically. “Has a bit of an attitude problem.”

Philippa, wounded, lets Triss lead the way from there.

The temple entrance opens onto the nave where ivy creeps along its walls. Ahead is the altar which houses a statue of the goddess Freya. Around her neck is a gold necklace with an enormous blue rosette, perfectly positioned to catch the reflection of the moon through a single narrow stained-glass window.

Triss stares up in awe.

“Welcome to the temple of the Mother, honorable sorceresses,” comes a deep echoing voice.

Both women startle, turning toward a doorway at the other end of the nave.

A feminine figure holding a candle walks toward them. Her gait is careful and studied. She wears a long robe. Triss briefly wonders if she’s Freya come to life.

As she nears, Triss sees instead a plain older woman whose eyes are tired, their late-night arrival clearly intruding upon her sleep.

“Excuse us, priestess. We’re here looking for someone,” Triss says, then steps closer, curious. “How did you know we were sorceresses?”

“Mages are making a sudden habit of pilgrimaging to our remote temple,” she says, unfazed. “I am Modron Sigrdrifa, and I’m afraid you won’t find who you’re looking for here.”

“Well met, Modron. You’ll have to forgive our indecorum. It’s not a lack of manners that causes us to withhold our names. Rather, we’re on an important mission that requires discretion,” Philippa states.

“Very well.” Sigrdrifa nods and waits.

Philippa gives Triss a meaningful look before continuing.

“You mention other mages. Did a dark-haired man pass through here? Some might say handsome, well-built like a soldier, and likely very charming.”

“A _false_ charm.”

“Yes.”

“All I can say is that the stranger – he also failed to introduce himself – had an unhealthy interest and far too many questions.”

“About Princess Ciri,” Philippa supplies.

Sigrdrifa says nothing.

 _“Please._ That mage was an agent of Nilfgaard.” The resolved priestess breathes evenly, as if waiting for Philippa to exhaust herself. Frustrated, she continues, “Is there nothing we can do to loosen your wrinkled lips?”

Sigrdrifa laughs then, despite herself. “No. I’m afraid your efforts will be fruitless. This isn’t your fight, and the Princess, may she sup with the gods, isn’t your concern.”

Philippa swallows, then turns away.

Triss watches her go. She gives the priestess an apologetic smile.

“Thank you, Modron. We won’t take up any more of your time.”

The priestess regards Triss intently. Her voice is soft when she finally speaks. “You’ll stay here for the night, then push off in the morning. Understood?”

“Your generosity is…” Triss searches, “ _deeply_ appreciated. I don’t think I’d like to run into another drowner, especially in the dark.”

“I can’t expect you would – the foul creatures. Drive pests away from our gardens, at least.” Sigrdrifa looks past Triss to Philippa pacing near the entrance. She calls out, “Will a single bed do?”

Philippa’s head shoots up. Triss catches her eye. _Tissaia was right_. The priestesses of Skellige _did_ have powers beyond their understanding.

* * *

“Tell me about Freya,” Philippa requests as she and Triss lie under the blankets of their borrowed bed.

They face each other, pressed close. Philippa traces the palm of Triss’s hand with a feather-light touch.

The room is plain. Only a cot and fireplace. Wolves howl in the distance.

Triss hums as she thinks.

“Well, Freya is the goddess of love. And beauty, and _sorcery,”_ her smile is cheeky, “and of course, fertility. Skelligan women seek her blessing when they wish to conceive a child or if the pregnancy itself is difficult. There’s no medical or scientific basis for their devotion. But I’ve heard stories of miracles at the Great Mother’s hand.”

“Informative. You clearly paid close attention during Tissaia’s lectures.”

“I’d rather have been writing in my journals about disease resistance in plants and the magical properties of mandrake root, but Skelligan mythology wasn’t all bad. Freya felt particularly relevant somehow.”

“Because of our enchantments?”

Triss nods a yes. In that moment, she can’t help thinking of Yennefer and what Jaskier had said. “Have you ever wanted to carry a child?”

“That isn’t something I care to dwell on. I know it doesn’t feel like much of a choice when the alternatives are an eel pool and surviving in exile selling erectile dysfunction remedies to horny old men, but we do have one: irrelevance or power.”

“Now you sound like Tissaia.”

“I’d wager every sorceress on the Continent sounds a little bit like her.”

Triss laughs quietly then shifts onto her back. She ponders for a while until Philippa leans up on an elbow, looking over at her. “What about you?”

“Even if I did, a world full of monsters, pogroms, and wars is no place for a little one.”

Philippa hums her agreement before quickly reconsidering.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be completely awful, having a daughter. One I could raise up and make formidable. There are too many idiots roaming the world. What it needs is balance.”

“Philippa Jr.?”

“Perfect.” Philippa grins. “As long as there isn’t a man in this equation.”

“Never.” Triss assures. She turns back toward her, adjusting the blankets over them both so they’re snug. “Perhaps one day sorceresses won’t have to choose at all.”

* * *

Triss lies awake while Philippa sleeps soundly, heavy arm slung across her waist.

She pushes back her hair and sighs. _This restlessness…_ She can’t pin it down.

The moon is distractingly bright through their window, open just enough for ivy to creep through and spill onto the floor. Their fire blazes on valiantly, staving off the would-be chill. Still, Triss carefully extricates herself from Philippa’s arms and the warm refuge of their cot.

She pads silently through the maze of halls, awed at the living ruin. The interior of the temple is otherworldly: half crumbling and half taken over by nature. Stained-glass windows catch the light of the moon and stars, reflecting patterns on bare walls.

Somehow, the priestesses make it their home.

Continuing through the maze, she eventually finds the kitchen. A simple hearth with a single wooden table, long enough to seat at least a dozen. Near it, a fireplace for cooking and a pile of firewood. The room is faintly smoky from dinner.

On the far end of the table sits a pitcher of water and two cups. Parched, she fills one and downs it. Just as she wipes her mouth, she hears a gasp.

A priestess wrapped in a cozy tartan throw stands in the doorway. Trailing behind her is a Skelligan longhair cat that stops at her feet. It regards Triss with disinterest.

“Oh.” Triss sets down her cup. “I apologize if I woke you. I’m—”

“No, no. I know who you are.”

“You priestesses are scarily good at that.”

“At what?”

“Knowing things you haven’t been told.”

The priestess laughs under her breath before stepping further into the kitchen, cat at her heel. She reaches for a door. As she pulls it open, she looks back at Triss.

“Modron Sigrdrifa barging into the dormitories late at night talking about strange travelers isn’t the mystical source of knowledge you’re probably expecting. Come, sorceress. Let’s get you something to eat.”

She collects a small platter of dried fruits, meats, nuts, and cheese from the surprisingly well-stocked larder.

They sit across from each other as Triss picks at her plate, feeling awkward under the priestess’ watchful gaze.

Determined to cut the tension, she leans forward. “I appreciate your help, but was there anything you needed?”

“No. I just enjoy the occasional midnight stroll.” The priestess sits with her hands folded on the table, chin dipped as she looks at Triss.

“Midnight stroll rhymes with patrol,” Triss singsongs as she pops a piece of dried fruit in her mouth.

The priestess’ half-smile lets her know she’s on the right track.

“The last traveler to stop here was _unnerving_. Forgive my paranoia.”

Triss chews thoughtfully. “Trust your instincts. I can’t say as much as I’d like, but that traveler was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A traitor bent on achieving something awful.”

“And what is this awful thing?”

“I really do wish I could say more.”

“Then tell me something else. Why are you awake at such an hour?”

“Hmm. I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. It’s been an interesting day. After sailing in on the morning tide, my companion and I enjoyed a hot spring bath. I was injured in battle recently, and, well,” Triss swallows hard, taking a moment to collect her thoughts, “in the company of your shieldmaidens, I was able to come to terms with the scars I’ve been left with – more or less.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your injuries. Are you conflicted? Sometimes we cling to our pain and feel lonelier without it.”

“Not at all. I’m relieved. I feel more like myself than I have in months. My scars may not be something I ever feel comfortable showing the outside world, but they won’t define me.”

 _They won’t inhibit me,_ she wants to say.

“That’s very good, sorceress.”

“You can call me Triss, if you’d like.”

“Triss, then. My name is Thali.”

Triss pushes her plate toward Thali with a smile. They share the rest of the fruit and cheese, enjoying each other’s quiet company.

As they munch, a large ball of fluff leaps onto the table. It stretches its large paws toward Triss, waiting impatiently for rubs. Feeling charitable, she obliges.

“The mage from before,” Thali disrupts suddenly, tripping over her whispered words, “he was gathering information on Princess Ciri. I believe he was digging into the royal family line, going as far back as King Goidemar. That’s all I know. I wasn’t meant to be eavesdropping.”

It isn’t anything Philippa hasn’t already told her, but one detail sticks out. _King Goidemar._

“You have my thanks, Thali. This information might be exactly what we need.”

“I hope you can stop him.”

“Have faith.”

Thali nods. She stands from the table and walks to the larder. When she returns, it’s with a tied white cloth filled with victuals. “For your friend,” she says, smiling kindly.

* * *

They’re back on the road before the sun rises. Modron Sigrdrifa – whose gaydar they suspect must be a gift from Freya herself – doesn’t see them off. Instead, the other temple priestesses sip their morning tea and watch them go with suppressed interest.

Only Thali waves as they disappear into the trees.

Philippa steers while Triss leans against her from behind, trying and failing to stay awake. The return trip to the jetty will be longer with only one horse. Perfect for catching up on sleep.

Triss eventually rouses, feeling the rising sun’s warmth on her face as it filters through lush trees. She presses closer. Philippa keeps a steady hand on her arms where they hug her waist.

“Good nap?” Philippa asks, voice low.

Triss hums tiredly and nods.

* * *

Their ship out of Ard Skellig doesn’t leave for hours yet.

Triss sits alone at the bar, staring at the letter she’s just been handed. The cursive “J” stamped into the wax seal reveals exactly who it’s from.

She can guess at its contents, too: personal and professional gossip, glad tidings, some whining, and, if the pit in her stomach is correct, word on a certain witcher. She knows it’s a secret she has to keep for now.

She sighs.

As she tucks the letter into her cape pocket, she feels a body press into her from behind.

“We’re never coming back. Unless we teleport.” Philippa’s words are rushed as she shivers. Her chin rests on Triss’s shoulder and she reaches around to grab her tankard of ale. “Please?”

“Help yourself.” Triss turns and tugs Philippa toward the bar counter, situating her between her legs. Philippa drinks, hoping to warm herself from the inside out.

“We really have to do something about you and this cold.”

“It’s not even the temperature here, on the ground, walking along the wharf. It’s the blistering cold three hundred feet in the air. My wings were practically frozen,” Philippa tries to whisper.

Triss chances a look over her shoulder. The tavern is filled with sailors and fishermen too busy to care what anyone else is doing, and the barkeep knows better than to look up from his chores.

That’s the nice thing about Skelligers: they couldn’t care less about gossip and politics.

Still, she opts for discretion as she reaches into Philippa’s cape, pressing her palms to her abdomen. Heat emanates from her hands, warming her body. She laughs softly as Philippa sighs, her rigid posture going slack.

“Miss Merigold, my hero.” Philippa looks at her, eyes half lidded. Triss’s touch lingers, concealed by the heavy cape draped over Philippa’s shoulders and fastened at the neck with a brooch for warmth.

They have a few hours to kill, and Triss can think of a few favorable ways to spend them.

Before she can follow that train of thought, something draws her attention.

Without looking, she can sense recently used magic. It makes her skin prickle.

Philippa must sense it too, because she wastes no time turning away and pulling up the hood of her cape. She takes Triss’s hand and guides her silently through the dark tavern until they reach the door that leads to the kitchen.

Only then does Triss dare to look.

Fercart of Cidaris’s pale eyes sweep the room, table by table, studying each patron’s face. Before his gaze can meet hers, she darts after Philippa. The door swings closed behind them. The barkeep says nothing.

A member of the council, a survivor of Sodden, and Triss’s fellow court adviser in Temeria. _How was Fercart caught up in this?_

They push through the backdoor onto an icy alley. Philippa nearly slips, lucky that Triss is there to steady her.

After carefully zig-zagging the rest of the way to the docks, they find a vessel headed for the nearest eastern port. Foregoing the standard Skelligan longship and its miserable deck, they book passage on a light frigate with private quarters. Philippa pays handsomely for the peace of mind.

As they sail from the harbor, Triss finally allows herself to breathe.

Vilgefortz is onto them. She’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Stew for his contributions to this chapter. Justice for Heulyn!
> 
> And an extra special thanks to Calie for letting me borrow Thali.


	6. Diplomatic Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their brush with Fercart of Cidaris, Philippa and Triss escape Skellige on a ship bound for Nastrog. From there, they contact the only person they know in possession of more than a single brain cell.

In every direction Triss looks, there’s dark emptiness and silence. Not even the ship cutting across open water makes a sound.

Triss sighs heavily, looking down at the envelope in her hands. She thinks of its wine-stained pages. Jaskier’s letter is everything she expected, full of gossip and _Geralt._

She leans over the edge of the ship and drops the letter into the sea. Empires would burn through villages and colleagues would turn on close allies to know even a single word of what Jaskier had written her. And just like that, it’s gone.

Even Philippa can’t know. Not yet.

Triss turns back toward the door that leads inside.

* * *

As they near the Gulf of Praxeda, everything steadies. The ship rolls only slightly, and Philippa takes great care as she places an emerald in the heart of her megascope.

Triss, troubled and shaky, slips into their cabin.

“Good, you’re back. Let’s get this over with,” Philippa says, looking up from her task. If she notices anything amiss, she doesn’t say. Instead, she takes position across from the megascope. Triss joins her wordlessly.

The device starts up, and the few lanterns throughout their cabin flicker from the surge of magic. A woman suddenly appears, projected into the small space from thousands of miles away.

She stands tall in a beautiful, low-cut gown, regarding them with apathy at best.

“Thank you for receiving us on such short notice, Sabrina,” Philippa greets, all politeness. “You look very elegant this evening.”

“What do you want, Philippa?” Sabrina asks, voice flat.

Philippa is only just able to conceal her amusement. _No niceties then. And certainly nothing that can trigger her homophobic gag reflex._

“I’ll cut to the chase. In one month’s time, I’d like us all to meet in person at Montecalvo, my home in Redania. We have urgent business to discuss.”

“With Nilfgaard at our doorstep? I can’t abandon my king and deprive him of my counsel just to come when you beckon.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Philippa dodges, already knowing how best to handle her.

Their first meeting after Sodden had been much the same. Sabrina, imperious and protective of her kingdom, made every stage of courting her a test of endurance.

“…It’s a yes,” she replies coldly. “Just don’t make a habit of this.”

“There’s another reason we called,” Triss cuts in before Philippa can return fire. “Fercart of Cidaris was in Ard Skellig.”

“All the way in Skellige? How do you even know that?”

“Because he tracked us there,” Triss answers, choosing her words carefully. “We were hunting leads.”

“For our plan?”

“Yes, but please, say nothing else. We’ll discuss all of this in greater detail at Montecalvo. Just, between now and when next we meet, would you be so kind as to check in on Keira Metz? We need to know where her loyalties lie. If Fercart is working against us, the entire Temerian court might be compromised.”

Triss can tell Sabrina wants to ask more questions _. Compromised by whom and for what reason?_ Thankfully she holds her tongue. She’ll have her answers in due time.

“I’ll get it done.”

“Thank you, Brina.”

“Right. I’m disconnecting now.”

Sabrina disappears without waiting for a response.

Philippa waves a hand and the device shuts off. She drops down onto their small bed with a huff.

“Should we have told her where we’re going?” Triss asks.

“No. I trust Sabrina, but we clearly need to err on the side of caution for now.”

Triss nods, still feeling uneasy. “Where do we go from Nastrog?”

“About that,” Philippa leans on her side as she stretches out, “my contact in Ard Skellig said Vilgefortz’s trail led to southern Temeria. He couldn’t give an exact location, however. Wish he could have, if only to justify freezing my feathers off to meet with him.”

Triss looks back at Philippa laying on the bed, calm despite the day they’ve had.

She can’t resist joining her, even with the tight fit. She snaps her fingers and the lanterns dim. Tangled up together, the conversation trails off – until Triss remembers Thali’s words at the Temple of Freya.

“Maribor is in the south,” Triss muses aloud. Philippa merely hums, eyelids heavy as she starts to doze.

“Philippa,” Triss pats at her chest to rouse her, “the priestess from the temple mentioned Vilgefortz had been trying to dig up information on Princess Ciri’s ancestry. She mentioned King Goidemar by name. He died in Maribor. He has history there.”

“You think that’s where Vilgefortz teleported?”

“I don’t know, but do we have a better lead?”

“No, we don’t,” Philippa admits quietly. “If we’re to travel to Maribor, it will have to be by land, steering clear of roads and rivers. And we’ll have to be careful to avoid any straggling Nilfgaardian forces past Cintra.”

“So, the path of smugglers and spies?”

“Indeed.” Philippa closes her eyes, arms wrapped around Triss where she lies against her. She squeezes gently and sighs, “Now, can we please sleep?”

* * *

Far away in Ard Carraigh, Sabrina Glevissig looks out from the window of her private quarters. She sees the fortified city laid out before her in perfect rows of brick and stone. Beyond the ramparts is the rocky wilderness Viduka was first led to by unicorn, or so the legend goes. Sabrina hopes there’s truth to it or else it was simply the stupidity of man that led to the founding of a city so far from any lakes, rivers, or arable land – the source of her many headaches. Constant in the distance are the Blue Mountains. Unseen at their base is Ban Ard.

She turns away from the view. The room where she stands is all dark woods with simple tapestries warming the stone walls. A table and chairs sit in a circle in the middle of the space, her megascope at the center of it all. Her style is spartan, sleeker than anything else in the fortress.

From there, she sweeps into her bedchamber. Though moving with purpose, she takes a moment, catching herself in the mirror by her wardrobe. She eyes her makeup and adjusts her gown. She’s meticulous as she flattens her hands against the expensive fabric. Once satisfied, as evidenced by the barest smirk on her lips, she slips on a satin cloak, pulling up the hood.

She summons a portal just big enough to slip through, and as she’s about to do just that, her mind wanders briefly to Triss Merigold and that damned Philippa Eilhart. They were rude to interrupt her evening plans and ruder still to keep her in the dark while expecting her compliance.

When Philippa had first asked her to consider an alliance after Sodden, she agreed despite the company she’d be keeping. Though unfazed by certain rumors – jealousy-soaked myths circulated by Philippa’s lessers, she’s sure – she _does_ worry about the magnetism a woman like her possesses and how she might someday abuse that power.

Worse, Philippa is every bit as intelligent and competent as she appears – a lethal combination that needs monitoring. Yet here Sabrina stands, tasked with petty errands. What did loyalty even matter to an odd creature like Keira Metz? What use was she when she couldn’t even be bothered to fight at their sides when it mattered most on Sodden Hill?

Taking a quick breath, she refocuses on the work still to be done. There’s fresh trouble brewing with Kaedwen’s southern neighbor, Aedirn. And Sabrina simply can’t have that.

Her first duty, whether Philippa likes it or not, is to see that the interests of her realm are protected.

* * *

With a flash of light, she teleports to a muddy clearing. There, she spots a squat cairn signaling that she’s where she’s meant to be.

The night is cold as mountain air rolls down the pass; the moon’s glow is all that lights the way. Sabrina swats at pesky midges swarming the open air – Spring’s curse, especially in the evening.

She hikes up the skirt of her dress with a determined huff and stomps uphill.

Halfway, she hears wolves howling, hungry and hunting. She rolls her eyes and makes a fist, channeling her chaos as she walks on. Howls turn into whimpers and those hungry wolves skitter back into the brush.

It isn’t long before she comes to a bothy with nothing around it. Just four walls and a pitched roof. Nearing its door, she hears chatter within, and when she knocks, a woman in a wool veil greets her.

The woman – Mhairi, a farmer like so many others struggling to cultivate Kaedwen’s unforgiving lands – smiles as Sabrina enters.

Chatter quietens as she walks further into the small space. She steps up to the fireplace where the dozen or so people have gathered.

She holds out her hands to the fire, warming them.

“Please, continue, friends. I’m here to listen,” Sabrina says, staring into the fire.

And so they do. Merchants and farmers, representatives of their communities, air their grievances as they suffer under Aedirn’s sudden extortionate prices for trade. Sabrina listens attentively to their tales of hardship, as well as a few others about scandalous extramarital affairs with sheep. They’re simple people after all.

An hour passes before she finally speaks.

“Your king is ready to act on your behalf to make this right. Just say the word.”

“Our food stores are running low, and we’re unable to make a fair profit trading what goods we struggle to produce. We need their grains to feed our goats. We need the imported cotton passing through their kingdom to spin into yarn and weave into fabric so we can clothe our children. The high price they ask is going to kill us, Lady Glevissig,” comes the plaintive request of a simple shepherd, his lips hidden behind his bushy beard.

“I know. Continue bartering amongst yourselves, rationing what you can. Trust that the crown will be opening its winter stores for the people. You won’t be taxed,” Sabrina promises.

There are sighs of relief and murmurs of gratitude throughout.

King Demawend of Aedirn can top up their stores when he makes amends.

* * *

The next portal Sabrina summons takes her to Dol Blathanna, the prized breadbasket of Aedirn.

All around her are tall rock formations with shabby structures built into and around them. Lights from lopsided windows twinkle in the dark, but Sabrina knows she can’t be seen by the people within.

So, she moves quickly and silently, executing her carefully laid plan to bring Aedirn to heel.

As she nears rows of wheat and barley, she materializes a bow and strapped quiver full of arrows in one hand and flint and steel in the other.

Ahead of her are wooden granaries – engines of prosperity for a wealthy kingdom. There’s no shortage of dangerously flammable points on the silo.

Sabrina need only pick one.

With a steadying breath, she lights an arrow, nocks it, draws, and looses, mindful of her target. She lights and nocks another, this time aiming for a different target on the silo. It doesn’t take long to go up in flames.

She moves onto another granary nearby, urgent but careful as she goes. Each wooden silo she finds meets the same fate.

Only when she’s had her fill does she hear bells tolling and shouts of sleepy farm hands finally spotting smoke.

She briefly considers drawing the vitality from the unharvested crop around her, channeling that chaos to wreak more havoc on the valley. _It would be so easy,_ she thinks to herself.

That she resists is proof of her strength as a diplomat. For what could be a more potent bargaining chip?

* * *

With hours still before dawn, Sabrina makes one last stop.

Getting into King Demawend’s private chambers in Vengerberg – Aedirn’s capital – is surprisingly easy.

Sabrina would never have risked moving this aggressively if Yennefer still served the crown. Alas, Demawend keeps no Brotherhood-appointed mage to advise him. Just the independent counsel of Radcliffe of Oxenfurt, against whom Sabrina harbors no ill will. Rather than casting complex spells to ward off magical intruders, the northern mage likely spends his days in his study inventing practical uses for chaos. Few would fault him for that – though his priorities might change after tonight.

With deadly coolness, Sabrina takes a seat on the edge of the sleeping king’s bed. She pulls back the hood of her fine cloak. “Your Grace,” her soft voice calls out, hand resting upon his leg. She squeezes the flesh there.

He stirs with a grumble. “Away with you, dire wench. A king needs his rest. I've been milked dry…” His words trail off as sleep grips him once more.

“We all need something, Your Grace. Kings and peasants alike.”

King Demawend sits up finally, turning toward Sabrina. His eyes go wide, and before he can make a sound, she whispers an incantation. His tongue twists in his mouth as he tries in vain to yell for his guards.

“I’m not here to hurt you. As a loyal daughter of the North, I would never think to commit regicide against one of her own. So, calm yourself, good king. My only desire is to negotiate fairer terms for the people of Kaedwen.” The hand squeezing his leg releases, returning to her lap. She regards him carefully, watching to see if he’s calmed himself. “Now, are you ready to talk?”

He nods frantically, still panicked.

“I need you to breathe, Your Grace. Can you do that for me?”

Sabrina nods to the king, breathing in and out as if to demonstrate for him how it’s done. He follows her lead, gaze dropping to her half-bared chest as it moves with each breath. _Typical._

While the fight hasn’t drained from him, the skittishness has. She dips her chin finally, willing him to speak.

“Sabrina Glevissig was it?” King Demawend tests, rubbing at his throat.

Her smirk is chilling, eyes barely blinking. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“And why, pray tell, are you in my bedroom if not to assassinate me?”

“I’ve come with a message: a tenth of your granaries have been reduced to ash. More will follow if you force this enmity between our two kingdoms. Your people won’t starve, but they can, if we choose to make it so. King Henselt doesn’t want that. I don’t want that. I’m positive you and your people don’t want that, especially with Nilfgaard making a play for the Northern Realms.

“Speaking of Nilfgaard,” Sabrina looks down at her nails now, sounding almost bored, “when their forces eventually breach the southern firewall and cross the Yaruga, I hope Kaedwen can send its sizeable armies south in good faith. I would hate for its hands to be tied and for Nilfgaard to rip through your kingdom, raping and pillaging as it goes. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. Even the great Lioness of Cintra threw herself from the highest tower of her keep to escape what Nilfgaard does to those it captures.

“I sincerely hope we can put this regrettable business of extortion behind us and continue to trade as good neighbors do,” Sabrina finishes, lifting her gaze back to the cowed king before her.

King Demawend swallows painfully before speaking. “Whatever disagreeable trade terms my kingdom mistakenly inflicted on the honorable people of Kaedwen will be reversed immediately. You have my word.”

“Good. Wagons from the capital are traveling south as we speak. We’ll expect a token of good faith. Then, Your Grace, we can renew our bonds of friendship.”

“Kaedwen is a…” He struggles to utter the next words but knows he has no other choice, _“cherished ally._ I’ll see that this is made right.”

“I trust you.” Sabrina pats his leg with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Because we both know that if you don’t, I’ll have to pay you another visit, and that one won’t be as cordial. What’s worse, we both know none of your advisers will believe that a witch from the barren backwater of Kaedwen stole into your bedroom in the dead of night manifesting extremely negative and wicked energy toward you. It sounds like a tall tale meant to scare naughty children.”

Sabrina stands then. She flattens the fabric of her dress once more then pulls up the hood of her cloak.

King Demawend gulps, watching as she holds out a hand. There’s a sudden tension pulling his every cell taught before the force of something intangible ripples through the air.

A portal appears there in the middle of the king’s bedchamber.

Sabrina curtsies, breathes a reverent “Your Grace”, then turns and steps through.

* * *

She considers stopping at the bakery in Ard Carraigh for something _warm and sweet._

Above the shop lives the baker, a pleasant young man. She doesn’t actually know his name. She might have, once. She’s sure they exchanged them when they first met in the market square one morning, but she’s forgotten it long since and can’t be bothered to ask again.

He’s good for a quick, if dull, physical release whenever one needs tupping. And it might not be as convenient as seeking a horizontal refreshment with one of the men in court, but they’re all too power-hungry for their own good.

Sabrina has neither the time nor the inclination to deal with that avoidable mess.

However, after a long day and night handling business, she has little interest in teleporting into a back alley as a pair of drunks from the local tavern moan into each other’s mouths with ripe beer breath. They’ll wake the next day with faint memories of lackluster groping and a cloaked woman appearing out of thin air.

No. Sabrina is bone-weary and chaos-spent, and she’ll have to report to court first thing in the morning. The baker can wait.

She teleports home just before the sun rises.

* * *

By mid-morning, Sabrina stands before King Henselt’s throne.

Rustic iron chandeliers hang unlit from the vaulted ceilings of the great hall. Bright sun filters through stained-glass windows just above the dais upon which the king’s throne sits.

On either side of the hall, lords and learned men gather. Too many are sycophants, and the only comfort to Sabrina is that King Henselt knows. His trust lies with her.

“You never fail to impress me, Lady Glevissig,” the king smiles after being debriefed. He strokes his beard thoughtfully. “Of course, once we have their grain, I don’t see why we can’t still burn the valley.”

“Your Grace, if I may?” Sabrina lifts her chin, already formulating a strategy to talk King Henselt down from this course of action without insult or injury.

He nods. “Speak freely.”

“For the kingdom to function as _perfectly_ as it does under your rule, it requires a certain level of cooperation with Aedirn we can’t yet sacrifice. But in time, knowing your sound judgment guides us, we’ll expand south and take Dol Blathanna for ourselves. It’s just a matter of waiting for the right moment.”

“Yes, yes. In time,” the king’s attention waivers.

“My king, you and I are of the same mind,” comes the smooth voice of an ambitious lord, hair slick and face clean-shaven. “We should strike as soon as the wagons of grain enter our gates. Our people will be fed and King Demawend will have nowhere to run. Nilfgaard is in the south, Cintra is a ruin, and we’re in the north. The mountains and wastes beyond offer no refuge. Lady Glevissig, whom I respect deeply, has a womanly heart. When it comes to war, you should trust your divine instincts, Your Grace.”

There are grumbles of agreement throughout the hall, gruff smatterings of “hear hear”. 

Sabrina keeps her gaze forward, locked on King Henselt. He looks between his two advisers, mulling his choices.

“I will consider it,” he says finally, standing from his throne.

The small council is dismissed for the morning.

* * *

Sabrina is sick of it.

She’s sick of being undermined despite being the brains behind the king’s every move. She’s sick of going unappreciated as a trustworthy steward of the kingdom’s fortunes. She’s sick of serving dutifully and loyally, nearly dying to keep Nilfgaard from spreading north.

She thinks of Yennefer then – a hero of Sodden, presumed dead. Yet none of the men here draped in silks and furs know her name or the names of the thirteen other mages who died defending the North.

There’s corruption and incompetence everywhere, and something in Sabrina can’t help but want to make it right.

She finds the king in his private study and informs him of business that will take her away from the kingdom for a short time. She spins a simple tale. It’s convincing enough.

Mentally, she’s already planning travel and lodging arrangements for Montecalvo. One can’t simply teleport into the castle, unfortunately, though it’s a smart precaution on Philippa’s part. She’s certainly wiser than a king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next phase of the story, here we go! 
> 
> Biggest damn thank you to Stew for all your help with this and every chapter.


	7. The Long Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippa and Triss depart from Nastrog, journeying forth to Maribor. Undeterred but knowing their position is more precarious than ever, the two women tread lightly in their pursuit of Vilgefortz.

Spring in the Verdenian countryside is serene. Skellige hoards the cold for itself, leaving the heart of the Continent warm and sunny with blue skies and green hills.

Dotting the landscape are forests and rivers. Most people travel by the Ribbon, a faster route Philippa and Triss are careful to avoid. Others travel by the roads where steep tolls and cut-throat robbers prey on the droves of refugees fleeing north.

Instead, they take the longer and less traveled path through the Continent’s most ancient wilds.

There, a rocky monolith lurks on the horizon. Though not as big as others, the shining landmark is essential. It stands tall, visible from great distances, as if warning travelers, _‘Here be dryads. Venture forth if you dare’._

With the sun shining and flowers blooming, it’s difficult to muster fear of the unknown. Anyone else – with the exception of a certain witcher – would be afraid to ride this deep into the wilderness, so near the Forest of Death. But not Philippa, and certainly not Triss, who knows she’s already survived hell.

* * *

After a week of riding, creature comforts feel like a distant memory.

Inns are rare so far from the main roads, and while Triss and Philippa have all they need, simple luxuries are missed. Still, they come to appreciate the slower pace of travel, stopping frequently to let their horses rest.

They spend that time lazing, enjoying the untouched hillsides covered in wildflowers. They sit and talk about everything and nothing, becoming closer confidantes than either anticipated at the outset of their partnership, initially founded on aligned values and mutual respect (and _maybe_ some mutual attraction).

Days pass this way, and before they know it, Maribor is close.

“This might be the longest I’ve traveled without teleporting,” Philippa muses as they ride through a glade, the sun sinking low behind them. They’ll want to make camp soon.

Triss eyes Philippa with a half-smile. “Starting to feel that burn in your thighs, old woman?”

“Mmm. I’ll have toned quadriceps by the time we reach your gilded tower in Maribor. Can’t wait to meet your evil stepmother.”

“Gods. If I’d known you’d tease me about this.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t take you for the type to live in something so—”

“Fairytale?”

_“Phallic.”_

Triss snorts, her hand coming up to her chest defensively. “Would you prefer my quaint little laboratory in Temeria?”

“I’m sure they both pale in comparison to Montecalvo.”

“Undoubtedly. The lady of Montecalvo would never allow a _phallic_ structure to be built upon its sacred grounds. I just dread to think how we’ll get there.” Triss rubs her horse’s neck as if to say, ‘don’t take it personally’.

Philippa looks wistful, a shadow falling over her face as they leave the glade for the cover of trees once more. “What I wouldn’t give to step through space and time’s strange, wet orifice again.”

“You’re incorrigible. Portals are _not_ wet.”

“No, but they look it.”

Triss rolls her eyes, wishing she could summon a portal now just to prove her point. That she can’t is one more reason to hate Vilgefortz.

Before Philippa can say anything else to annoy Triss, they both notice the oddness of their surroundings.

The forest they’ve entered is beautiful, ethereal, and unnerving. Light struggles to penetrate the canopy of trees, save for golden rays sneaking through gaps in the forest ceiling where trees once stood. In their place are low stumps, clearly cut for logging.

Human settlements this close to Brokilon aren’t rare, but they are ill-advised. And the arrows lodged in tree trunks all around them paint a bleak picture of what prevented settlers from finishing the job.

Suddenly, they hear the sound of a dozen or more men marching nearby. Unable to resist investigating, they ride closer, slowly and quietly, coming to a deep ravine.

“Mercenaries?” Triss whispers from their hidden position above.

Philippa nods, taking in the two lines of soldiers marching before them. “Black Rayla’s company. Notice the armor?”

“I wouldn’t know them.”

“They’re upstarts. Aedirnian Special Forces known for their zealous approach to combating elven rebels. Ironic, considering Black Rayla’s own elven blood. We’ve been getting reports on their movement west. Tissaia is particularly fond,” she sighs, lifting her reins to guide her horse away.

Triss reaches out, catching Philippa’s wrist. She nods toward the opposite tree line. There, a woman with a crossbow steps out. Her armor is a mix of green leathers and scavenged metal. She holds a crossbow aimed at the head of the line.

She fires. A body drops with a groan.

The mercenaries panic, turning toward the high banks of the ravine. As they unsheathe their weapons, women rush from their cover in the trees, spears pointed forward. Behind them, more warriors appear with crossbows. With an almost unnatural speed, they nail the mercenaries with bolt after heavy bolt.

It’s a slaughter, and everything in Triss wants to intervene. However, one look from Philippa tells her it would be a mistake to draw attention to themselves.

Instead, she watches on helplessly, pulse racing.

* * *

Black Rayla’s company is as skilled as reports told. More than a few of the men are able to put up a fight, even with arrows through their arms and legs. They’re tough, but the dryads know the land, and that advantage coupled with the element of surprise dooms more than half of the small retinue.

Every soldier who isn’t on the ground runs.

As their attackers give chase, the sound of fighting is replaced by moans of agony from dying men. Philippa knows it’s useless to offer aid: dryads always strike to kill. So, she turns away finally, ready to continue on. Triss, however, drops down from her horse.

Philippa calls out, struggling off her own mount as she rushes to follow.

By the time she catches up, Triss stands at the bottom of the ravine, eyes trailing from one broken body to the next.

Their moans begin to fade.

“Triss,” Philippa tries, coming up behind her. She reaches for her shoulder. “Let’s go. There’s nothing we can do for them now.”

“Then shouldn’t we have done something sooner?”

“How could we? This land belongs to the dryads of Brokilon, and anyone who crosses its borders does so knowing the risks. Including us,” Philippa explains.

Triss exhales shakily, hand resting on her neck before it slides to cover her chest. She turns away. “I need a moment.”

Philippa hesitates, wanting to offer comfort somehow. Instead, she walks the path the mercenaries had been marching along, careful not to step on the dead.

As she passes a young man with an arrow through his neck, she wonders if they weren’t aware of the danger they put themselves in, crossing into dryad territory. Or if it was plain hubris: they knew and simply didn’t care.

The ravine goes silent – save for a single strangled gasp, almost too quiet to hear.

Philippa searches for the source of the sound until she finds a lone dryad, barely conscious. Her leg bleeds profusely, already puddling beneath her body, and bone sticks out through skin.

Philippa kneels beside her, checking her pulse. It’s slow but steady. With effort, she lifts the young dryad into her arms, careful not to injure her worse. When Triss notices Philippa walking back, she doesn’t hesitate to help.

Together, they carry the girl to their horses. 

* * *

Dryads are often thought of as mythical and murderous creatures of the forest. This girl, however, is just like any other. And her suffering is as commonplace as her appearance. Her dark hair is pulled back from her faintly freckled face, and she has brown skin rather than the green hues of folklore.

Foregoing sleep, Philippa and Triss work together throughout the night to make her whole again.

Philippa uses spells to mend what’s broken and ease her pain. Triss reapplies bandages and poultices to deep cuts across her legs. Her femoral artery is sliced clean through, and even with magical healing, the loss of blood is concerning.

Despite grim odds, she comes to, panicked and disoriented. She tries sitting up, but Triss is there to calm her, whispering soothing words that almost enchant the young dryad.

From her place near a small fire they built for light and warmth, Philippa pushes a mug of mysterious tea into her shaky hands.

“Congratulations. You lived, bitch.”

“Don’t call me bitch, _bitch,”_ the dryad grumbles in Common Speech, though her words are heavily accented. She eyes her tea warily.

“Just checking to see if you have your wits about you. Now drink. You’ve lost blood and need to regain your strength.”

Frowning, the girl takes a tentative sip.

Triss watches the two, feeling delirious and exhausted. She leans into Philippa, whispering, “Incredible bedside manner, doctor.”

Philippa holds back a smile. The dryad shifts uncomfortably, drawing her attention. “So, what’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“Philippa, and my companion here is Triss. Your turn.”

“…Mál.”

“Are you a dryad?”

_“Are you a witch?”_

“We witches prefer the term _sorceress.”_ Philippa sits back, taking the measure of the feisty dryad. Triss nearly snorts. “Are you always this reticent, or are you just a particularly bratty damsel? If only we’d known before we saw fit to save your life.”

“The others would have come back,” Mál says after a moment, deflating. “They wouldn’t just leave me.” Her words lack conviction, and Philippa sees her inexperience clearly then.

“You’re probably right,” Triss says, her voice soft and soothing, as she scoots closer. She points to a fresh strip of cloth wrapped around Mál’s thigh. “But your leg has an important blood vessel running through it here. When that’s cut and you don’t stem the flow, you can bleed to death very quickly. The _tiniest_ cut, yet it was the direst of your injuries.”

Mál nods, understanding, before closing her eyes. She’s weak and fading, struggling against sleep. 

They let her rest.

* * *

Morning comes.

Philippa stares up at the purple-pink sky from where she and Triss lay together.

“We don’t have a choice,” Triss whispers as she gently runs her fingers through Philippa’s hair. Mál sleeps like a log, totally oblivious to their hushed debate.

“Need I remind you that we’re almost certainly being hunted?” Philippa warns. “The longer we linger in this place, the fewer options we’ll have when everything comes to a head. This journey to Maribor is already taking longer than it should.”

“I know, but we can’t abandon her.”

“It’s hardly abandonment when we spent the last several hours kneeling at her bedside, exhausting our chaos so that she might live.”

“And all that effort will be for nothing if we leave her now. Surely we can spare a single day to deliver her home safely.” Triss traces Philippa’s lips before leaning over her to steal a quick kiss. “You don’t have to worry about us. We can handle whatever comes our way.”

“Kisses and flattery,” Philippa sighs, feeling as if somehow their dispositions flipped. “Dryads have a deadly reputation, you know.”

“So do we,” Triss answers easily.

Philippa can’t argue with that.

* * *

The Forest of Death rises in the distance like a specter. 

Even well-traveled sorceresses struggle to remain fully composed in the face of it. Ignorance is the only shield, and neither woman has that luxury.

Mál guides them to the entrance she knows best, pointing from her position in the saddle behind Triss. She’s too weak to do anything more.

As they ride closer, they see arrows and skeletons littering the ground – a clear portent of doom. Philippa and Triss lock eyes, but before they can voice their concerns, they hear a soft whistle.

_Warning shots._

“Can’t they smell how much we hate men? Why are they firing?” Philippa asks, flicking her wrist when one pesky arrow flies close to Triss’s horse. It drops, embedding itself in the ground with the rest.

“Your misandrist streak doesn’t make you any less of an outsider, Philippa.” Triss rolls her eyes, turning toward Mál. “Hold on tight. They need to see you. It wouldn’t hurt for them to hear you, either.”

The girl’s arms lock around her middle as Triss adjusts her grip on the reins, forcefully planting her boots in the stirrups. They charge ahead with Philippa following close behind.

The trio know what to expect, and Philippa is prepared, already deflecting arrows.

They ride closer and closer through the hailstorm. The arrows are increasingly accurate. As spears become visible before them, Triss turns her horse side-on. Mál musters all her strength to scream _something_ in Elder Speech, and it echoes through the clearing.

From within the trees, a voice calls out. 

The arrows stop.

* * *

Philippa helps Mál down from Triss’s horse, bearing the bulk of her weight, and together, they march forward.

As they near the forest, a grim woman with paint around her eyes and a spear in her hand emerges to meet them. Lurking behind her is the unit she commands. There are doubtless more warriors unseen in the trees, camouflaged in a way only dryads know how.

The woman stops short when she spots Mál’s injuries.

With a word in Elder Speech, she orders her fellow dryads to rush her into Brokilon’s protection. Triss assists as much as they allow.

So close to the ancient forest, Philippa can feel its humidity and hear exotic bird calls and the hum of something alive within. It’s unlike anything she’s ever experienced. The heat warms her skin, even from a distance.

She’s broken from her trance by the dryad general’s voice.

“I seem to have misplaced the keys to our Brokilon. You’ll have to go without a reward. But thank you, sorceress,” she says, her words kind but clipped.

“I’m not sure the water would be to my taste. Still, you’re welcome.” Philippa looks beyond the general as the injured girl disappears into the forest. Her gaze is held there as Triss walks back, the breeze blowing her long curls and the flowy fabric of her dress. Sighing, she looks back at the general. “I knew the green skin was a lie, but could it be the famed solidarity is too? Your Mál was abandoned quite easily.”

The general is quiet, and so very still, as she considers her words. When she finally speaks, it sounds like a test.

“You have our gratitude. Mál’s a fine warrior, and this experience will only sharpen her instincts. When she’s fighting for our borders once again, your legacy here will be justice. Surely something you value, judging by your acts.”

“We value justice, yes, but _sisterhood_ above all,” Triss answers, coming up beside Philippa. “I would sooner give my life than leave behind a comrade, especially if our forces were as indomitable as yours.”

The dryad general looks between the two women for a moment before nodding. Triss’s words brook no argument, and with nothing more to say, she makes for the tree line.

Triss and Philippa share a look before turning toward their horses.

From Philippa’s place in the saddle, she calls out to the retreating general, “Tell Mál to always guard herself, and never let a stupid man get the better of her in battle again.”

The general smiles back despite herself, nods once more, then continues into Brokilon.

* * *

They ride for Maribor, pushing their horses harder than before.

Breaks for rest are shorter too. And, by mutual agreement, a moratorium on lazing and picking wildflowers is put in place.

_Just for now._

“We’re really bad at not making a spectacle of ourselves,” Triss muses, frowning as they cross a shallow stream. The sun shines, reflecting on the water’s surface.

“We have to stop caring about other people. For our health,” Philippa replies, exhausted, tugging her horse forward by the reins.

Triss nods, convinced and equally tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the usual suspects <3


	8. Towers of Maribor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After traveling through the wilds of Verden into southern Temeria, Philippa and Triss finally arrive in the principality of Maribor. There, secrets are revealed and faith is tested.

Two hooded figures approach Maribor on horseback. Before them is a land stark and cold even in Spring. Just as Triss remembers it.

Thick woods – mighty spruce and pine – butt up against the Western Gate of the walled city. Farmlands growing hardy vegetables border the rest, stretching as far as the eye can see. Somehow, the sun peeks through gray clouds in wondrous shafts of pale light.

Even with the chill in the air, Maribor is ancient and beautiful with great hills and more monoliths than either woman has seen in one place before. Three or four cluster in the center of the city, as if sprouting from deep beneath the ground.

They ride through the Southern Gate straight into the noisy bustle of the city, passing market stalls and wandering families of refugees fleeing north. Beggars and panhandlers, the old and the poor, displaced Cintrans and Temerian workers mixing and mingling.

It’s densely packed in the poorer parts of the city, more so than usual. But it still feels like a version of home to Triss. She knows the wanted signs on cracked walls and the old men asleep beside the road. The grime is reassuring, a sign that life hasn’t changed much even as everything shifts; Temeria is safe from Nilfgaard for now.

More than anything, she and Philippa are simply glad to rejoin civilized society, though it must be done in total secret. Hooded cloaks hide their faces, and as they pass through crowds of hungry people they’d otherwise hope to help, they try not to stand out.

They ride on through the city, their horses clip-clopping along cobbled streets. It’s then that a dwarven woman – not a rare sight in Maribor, so close to Mahakam – approaches them. She keeps pace walking beside their horses. In her arms is a ruddy-cheeked babe, wrapped snug in its blanket. She reaches out to Triss with one hand, turning her sad gaze on her.

Triss suspects that despite their simple cloaks, caked in mud after a long journey from Nastrog, the finery underneath draws the eye. The mother might even think because they’re women traveling alone they must have some security. Enough to lend a helping hand.

“Please, miss. Do you have food to spare, or even a few orens for the little one?”

Triss shakes her head sadly. They spent most of what coin they had sailing away from Ard Skellig – leaving in a panic has a steep cost. And what little that remained was spent on whatever supplies they needed to cross Verden into Temeria. As for food, they simply have none.

The dwarven woman beseeches them, louder and more desperate the more Triss shakes her head. The poor woman can’t help but draw attention to them, and history proves the trouble this causes.

Triss yearns to help – to use the status she typically enjoys in Maribor to see that the woman is fed and cared for to the best of the city’s ability. But in this moment, she has no choice but to canter on with a soft apology, leaving the woman and her hungry baby grasping at air.

Before guilt can eat at her, Philippa gives her a firm nod. There’s no knowing who is or isn’t spying for Vilgefortz anymore.

There’s no knowing what eyes watch the street, waiting for Triss’s return.

* * *

Triss’s girthy tower is a red brick cylinder with a conical roof and ornate windows sitting high above the rest of the neighborhood. Tall as a clocktower but fatter, and visible from this short distance away.

People of great wealth and import stroll the streets of the city center where it stands, dipping in and out of shops and inns. There are trees throughout, nestled between tall townhouses with steep pitched roofs. The sweet smell of pine perfumes the air.

Though many would prefer to forget, Maribor is built atop elven ruins. And it’s never more evident than in the heart of the city, where monoliths cast long shadows. The beauty of elven architecture bleeds into everything – as long as one knows to look for it.

It’s here that Triss makes her home.

“And they say size doesn’t matter.” Philippa gazes up at Triss’s tower with thinly-veiled antipathy.

“It doesn’t. Some of us are just naturally well-endowed.” Triss rests a hand on her hip, smiling up at her monstrosity. Philippa purses her lips fondly.

“So, how do we get in?” she asks in a hush as they hitch their horses to a nearby post. “We can’t just waltz through the front door, and we certainly can’t teleport inside. Vilgefortz may not know for certain who we are, but at this point, he surely suspects. Is there another entrance?”

“Any mage’s lair worth its saltpeter has a secret tunnel,” Triss answers as she pulls Philippa by the hand toward a busy loggia in the other direction. “Follow me.”

After a few twists and turns weaving through Mariborians going about their business, they come to a courtyard between rows of tall shops and houses. Thick foliage obscures any onlooker’s view. Tucked away is an abandoned well surrounded by brush and fallen pine needles.

Philippa stands back and watches as Triss holds out a hand. In a voice so quiet it can barely be heard, she speaks a complicated incantation. The sound is just loud enough to carry across the short distance between herself and the hidden entrance only she knows.

The well, sealed shut by a heavy slab of rock moments before, is suddenly an open tunnel with a ladder leading down.

They climb to the bottom one at a time, and with little light to guide them, feel along the stone walls of the tunnel for the way forward.

“And now we enter through the urethra,” Philippa announces with a weary sigh.

Triss summarily ignores her comment.

* * *

The tunnel leads to a small latched door in the floor of the tower’s cellar. Philippa and Triss pull themselves up amongst bags of grain, wheels of cheese, and jars of preserves and other goods. Lining the walls are racks of wine, vintage and coated in dust. It’s been a while since Triss was last here.

After giving herself a quick dusting off, she peruses the untouched bottles until she comes to a Toussaint red gifted by the one and only Margarita Laux-Antille, whose taste in wine she trusts implicitly.

“For later,” Triss supplies, holding up her find for Philippa to admire before they make their way up.

The ground floor of the tower is a handsome entry hall with a stable and room for a carriage. The grand door is heavy and covered in intricate carvings of flowers and pastoral scenes. A single large tapestry hangs above a wooden bench, and iron sconces are mounted for light. Triss promises she’s long taken care of the issue of _privacy._ Nothing within is visible from outside. The benefits of an enchanted tower.

The second floor boasts a kitchen with a large stone chimney and sturdy tables for prepping. There, Triss keeps herbs that grow by the windows. Next to the kitchen is the dining room.

Above that is the library and sitting room, housing all of Triss’s many books. It’s her favorite space in the tower, not least because of its south-facing window seat. Triss imagines herself looking out at the hilly view with a companion – someone with whom she can share a blanket and gossip on the latest courtly mishap. It’s a cozy thought, and one she hasn’t ever indulged. Until now, romances were flings at best. _If you’ve seen one man, you’ve seen them all,_ she would say.

Eventually, they climb the stairs to the topmost floor. Entering through an arched doorway, they find Triss's bedroom. It’s spacious and nearly overgrown with plants. A small area, with vials of medicines and healing potions, is dedicated to Triss’s experiments – though most of that work is done in her laboratory at the palace. The furniture throughout is classy: comfortable velvet seating, a masterfully crafted desk and vanity, a bath near the largest window, and a large bed calling out to them.

The weary travelers take stock of themselves finally. After weeks spent riding through the interior of the Continent with only themselves and their horses for company, all Triss and Philippa want is a bath and some rest. So, they bathe quickly – and separately – unable to expend the energy necessary to luxuriate. Afterward, they crash on Triss's bed together, totally exhausted.

Their sleep is peaceful, the threat of Vilgefortz finding them forgotten.

* * *

Philippa wakes alone in Triss’s bed feeling renewed and warm all over. The redbud sun sets in the east, casting a pink-orange glow where she lay.

She stands and stretches, pulling her wild hair back with a tie. 

Before she can find Triss again, she’s side tracked admiring the _things_ on every surface of the room. She notes a book half-read on Triss’s nightstand, her finger trailing along the spine. _The Gods and Skellige: A Concise History._ Fitting.

Beyond that, she sees sweet smelling perfumes, makeup, and jewelry on the vanity. And all around the room are small carvings, bleached-white animal bones, and artifacts on shelves next to candles and potted plants. Every inch of the room feels like _Triss._ From the walls covered in devil’s ivy to the hanging chandeliers with dimly lit candles and vines twisting around the candelabra.

The room is imbued with a calm, herbaceous scent that puts Philippa at ease. It follows her down through the stairwell until she finds the kitchen. There, a more appetizing aroma greets her. Triss swirls a goblet of wine in her free hand before sipping. The bottle sits open on the prepping table where she works to put the finishing touches on a plate of something that looks tasty. 

Philippa takes in the scene, watching as Triss garnishes the plate with fresh chopped basil and coarse salt.

Triss looks up, catching her.

“Good nap?” she asks with a sweet smile, echoing Philippa’s words on Hindarsfjall.

 _“Good_ might be underselling it.” Philippa moves closer, leaning against the table. “What’s this?”

“Zucchini flower fritters. Try one.” Triss holds up a forkful, waiting patiently for Philippa to take a bite.

Instead, she scrunches up her nose. “Are you trying to feed me? _Like a child?”_

“That’s right. Open up, brat.”

The fork hovers in front of Philippa’s mouth demandingly. She rolls her eyes and bites. _Triss is the real brat,_ she thinks, but to argue that point would just prove the opposite. Still, she knows the truth.

They share the fritters and the wine companionably from there on, teasing each other between bites. It’s delicious, and Philippa stops her bullying just long enough to lavish Triss with well-deserved praise. After subsisting so long on wild rabbit and hardtack dressed up with illusions, fritters are a feast.

* * *

Dinner ends only once the last drop of wine is gone. They linger in the kitchen tidying and talking, enjoying each other’s company on their first night in the ancient city of Maribor.

They sit on the edge of the prepping table now, pressed close, legs swaying together. Triss’s voice is low as she leans in, pointing out the enchanted apparatus keeping her herbs and vegetables alive while she’s away for long periods. It’s kind of genius. Part magic, part smart engineering. In the day, her plants thrive in the light of all the many windows, growing a bounty Triss can be proud of.

In amongst the herby splendor, a mushroom is spotted, and a story is told. Philippa is rapt as Triss shares how when she was a young girl, still a student at Aretuza, Yennefer showed her which plants and fungi have medicinal _and_ recreational uses.

“The psilocybin in some strains of mushroom can, in lay terms, cause a neural effect that feels good,” she repeats Yennefer’s wisdom from so long ago. “With enough, you’ll perceive the things around you differently.”

“Does Tissaia know?” Philippa laughs, disbelieving.

Triss thinks of the spirited woman laughing and drinking that night before battle. Perhaps she was likelier to have joined them if she’d ever stumbled upon their unorthodox lessons.

“Doubtful, but she seemed to appreciate my mushroom mastery when it counted. I released poisonous spores in the forest around Sodden Hill. It took just one deep breath for Nilfgaardian soldiers to drop.”

Impressed, Philippa takes Triss’s hand and laces their fingers. “I wish I could’ve witnessed you bringing Emhyr’s wrinkled infantrymen to their knees.”

“Me too.” Triss leans her shoulder into Philippa’s where they sit. “We certainly could have used your sword sooner.”

“Next time, I’ll be there,” Philippa says, squeezing her hand just a little tighter.

Triss nods with a half-smile. Then an idea strikes her. She hops down from the tabletop and reaches for a high shelf, stretching until she grabs a jar filled with a mystery substance.

“So, true or false: you’ve never experienced psilocybin’s mind-altering effects.”

“Sadly true. I’m _appalled_ I was denied this essential instruction as a student.”

“The great Philippa Eilhart doesn’t have a complete Aretuza education,” Triss teases. “What will people say when they find out?”

Philippa sighs, playing along. “My reputation can’t take another hit.”

“I won’t let it.” She takes Philippa’s hand once more. “We have work to do.”

* * *

Candlelight flickers and soothing smells fill the top floor of the tower. A cool breeze blows in making the sheer curtains all around them billow hypnotically

The jar sits half empty, discarded on the floor.

Triss and Philippa lay together, not touching.

“I know you weren’t serious before, but you mentioned your reputation. Was it difficult, deciding to be open about your feelings for women?” Triss asks, breaking the comfortable silence. They’d taken just a small amount of her dried mushrooms, easing Philippa in for her first time.

“What I’ve noticed,” Philippa speaks slowly and distractedly as she gazes up at the radial wood beams high above them. Her eyes follow the green vines creeping across the vaulted ceiling, “is that those upset are particularly bothered by my _lack_ of feelings for men. That I only love the fairer sex seems an afterthought.”

“Those people are foolish and small-minded.”

“Too right,” Philippa hums. “Thankfully, while Sabrina’s head is small, her chest is not.”

Triss pushes at Philippa’s shoulder with a laugh.

Philippa smiles, smug and unbothered as her eyes close. “I’ve been wondering something too. What’s the story behind your first meeting with the Witcher? I’m privy to a great deal in the Northern Kingdoms, but that particular tale never made it into my reports.”

“Good. That means my efforts to conceal what really happened were successful.”

 _“Talent,”_ Philippa toasts succinctly.

“Thank you.” Triss adjusts her position in bed until she’s settled in for story time. “I don’t know if I currently have the faculties to put this as eloquently as you deserve, but King Foltest and Princess Adda were in love. She was cursed when she became pregnant with his child, and when she died, the fetus within her grew into a striga. A petty noble, Lord Ostrit, jealous of the princess’s attentions, wanted to ruin King Foltest and turn the realm against him. Naturally, he did all he could to guide blame to the king. All the while, the striga was killing indiscriminately. It was causing unrest in the capital, so the Brotherhood sent me. It was one of my first appointments, and I didn’t want to let down Tissaia. I took my responsibility _very_ seriously.

“So, with great discretion, I collected as much evidence as I could. My knowledge of monsters isn’t as impressive as my knowledge of mushrooms, however, as you already know. After one witcher failed, I wondered if there was any solution at all. By chance, that’s when Geralt of Rivia arrived.”

Her words trail off, her attention stolen by the mesmerizing glow of candles and stars twinkling before her eyes. The animal skulls arranged on shelves among plants and books catch the light and hold her gaze, reminding her of Old Vizima.

“He was… helpful,” she resumes, coming out of her daze with some effort. “He solved the great mystery of who’d originally cursed Princess Adda by sniffing her bed in the old palace where the striga roamed – sheets and all. Apparently, the scent he picked up with overwhelming clarity was the _sap_ from Lord Ostrit’s tiny little tree branch.”

“Familiar with Lord Ostrit’s tree branch, are we?” Philippa teases.

“Let’s just say he had the unmistakable aura of a man lacking in confidence.” Triss lays back, tired as the night wears on and the dried mushrooms leave her feeling mellow and sinking. She lazily snaps a finger. The candles throughout the room snuff at once.

“And what sort of aura did your witcher have?”

Triss, on the edge of sleep, answers more slowly and more honestly than the blithe question requires. “Sad but capable. With his skills, he could track Vilgefortz just by the smell of his sweat. Instead, he’s probably in the ruins of Kaer Morhen dissecting mutated rats with his child surprise.”

“Why would he be at Kaer Morhen?” Philippa presses, sobered by the notion of Ciri hiding at the old keep. She glances sidelong at Triss whose eyes have shut.

“Looking for purpose, or a distraction. Anything to not think about his broken heart.” Triss takes a moment, breathing deeply before continuing. Her words are a dreamy sigh, slurring with fast-approaching sleep. “It took Jaskier several paragraphs to say as much… _Poetic garbage.”_

Her words hang in the air.

Philippa lays in silence, thinking.

* * *

By afternoon, Philippa and Triss don fresh dresses and cloaks. Their hair is pinned, a sign of societal conformity – lest they be recognized as free women, or worse, _sorceresses._

They walk side by side through the streets.

Maribor’s Archives and Records building would be Vilgefortz's destination, Triss suspects. And not just to admire its beauty.

“King Goidemar was quite the patron. He funded efforts to collect information on his reign and the events of his time into a single archive,” she explains, confident in her expertise on the matter. “It’s not a large section from what I remember, but I’m sure we’ll find something useful.”

Philippa hums, her hands clasped behind her back. “He was Leticia’s brother, wasn’t he?”

“Leticia, yes. I’d almost forgotten there were rectoresses before Tissaia,” Triss agrees. She fiddles with the high neck of her dress, thinking. “Rescued his wife from Falka’s forces; raised the Houtborg Triplets, caring for them equally; built hospitals in his beloved’s name… all to have the Witcher trample over his grave fighting a striga for me.”

“I doubt the old King expected to be the center of so much action,” Philippa notes.

“He’d be glad someone, _anyone,_ is taking an interest in his archive, seeking the same answers he sought throughout his life.”

There’s a pause – a tiny current of awkward friction buzzing between them. Triss folds her arms across her chest, eyes forward. “About last night…”

Philippa tenses for the briefest moment, bracing herself for some mention of the letter or Princess Ciri.

Instead, Triss continues, oblivious to the real reason for Philippa’s reaction. Her voice is unsure and her words halting as she speaks. “I’m sorry that whatever we had just made us sleepy. Mixing mushrooms with wine might've been a mistake. I can barely remember a thing.”

Philippa exhales, almost laughing. “It was fine. I feel as if I’ve learned something, and that’s all that matters.”

“Your reputation is safe,” Triss smiles, uncrossing her arms to join their hands discreetly.

“How will I ever repay you?” Philippa says, leaning into Triss as they walk on.

She decides then to forget the previous night’s accidental admission. There would be no secret letter to Dijkstra or interrogation of the facts. Instead, Vilgefortz would be her focus. They were playing cat and mouse with a viper after all.

_Princess hunting can wait._

In no time, they’re descending the stairs of the city’s Archives and Records, deep into the basement of forgotten history. Each floor down exposes more and more elven beauty. The architecture is a human-elven fusion like most older structures in Maribor, but one thing sets it apart: a rock wall that glimmers in lantern light.

The lowest levels are built into a broken monolith that had once stood in the city. For reasons unknown, only this piece remains. Few Mariborians ever venture down far enough to realize, unaware of the power or knowledge housed below.

* * *

They come across a clerk as they make their way to the least visited corner of the bottom-most floor. The clerk looks up from the stack of dusty books she holds, eyeglasses slipping down her nose.

“Odd. You're the second and third guests to visit this section of the archive in as many months. Hmm. A record.”

“That is odd indeed. Who was the other guest, if it’s not too much to ask?” Triss leans in, waiting with bated breath for Vilgefortz’s description.

“A man. Short and spare with an unhealthy pallor. Didn’t give his name, sorry. Enjoy,” the terse clerk says with a dismissive turn, heading for the stairs.

“Well then,” Triss huffs.

Philippa shoots her a thin-lipped smile in sympathy. Triss brushes it off, refocusing on their important task.

All around them are high shelves with countless tomes and scrolls. There are various ancient documents categorized near more recent chronicles of queens, kings, and history.

Half as much is written about King Goidemar as Queen Riannon, but they still manage to find the section he carved out for himself. This archive holds every surviving document from his reign. It’s all been collected in Maribor, the place of his death. And though it's sad history shines only a dim light on his reign, Philippa and Triss are thankful it won’t be too much to pore over. So, they spend the afternoon going through all of it, page by page.

Eventually, they find what they didn’t know they were looking for: a clue

 _King Goidemar’s Chronicle_ by Tas W. Ombrogenous – a controversial figure in historiography and a hack in the Brotherhood’s estimation.

Philippa is familiar with his work. His crackpot theories are well-documented, though difficult to find evidence of this many years on unless you have access to privileged collections. It’s a wonder a copy survives here in Maribor, publicly accessible.

She flips through until she finds a page curiously missing. And freshly torn judging by the remaining strip bound to the spine. She skims the surrounding pages. Falka’s uprising, Riannon’s rescue, and the Houtberg Triplets. She knows what belongs here: theories of tainted blood and the cursed branch of the tree of hatred.

“Ombrogenous posits Fiona was Falka’s daughter, not Riannon’s. The page that would presumably map out his argument is missing,” she explains, voice low. Triss wanders over from where she’s been flipping through her own split of the archive, sidling in close so their conversation doesn’t carry.

“And he’s wrong, surely,” Triss states, though there’s clearly a question she wants Philippa to answer.

Philippa considers her next words carefully.

“The leading authority on this matter is confident the child is Riannon’s. It has every reason to be, considering its proximity to the situation. One can imagine gene manipulation and arranging marriages for centuries affords some certainty,” she speaks, avoiding referring to the Brotherhood by name. “But if Vilgefortz is pursuing this, there might be more here than meets the eye. We just need to find out what.”

Just as they begin to examine the chronicle closer, hoping for some indication of Vilgefortz’s next move, the clerk returns. She clears her throat to announce her strange presence.

“If you're interested in Maribor's deep history — which you clearly are — you should attend the talk I'm giving. Tickets are 20 orens,” she offers, leaflet in hand.

Philippa takes the proffered flyer then presses it into the clerk’s chest with a finger. “No, we're not interested. Can you please find someone else to bother?”

The clerk crosses her arms, face tight with judgment. “Fair,” she says, still _so_ curt. “Just know proceeds go toward helping the refugees in our city. I'm sure it’s not that you hate starving children.”

Philippa narrows her sharp eyes and slips an expensive ring from her finger. The gem gleaming from the metal band catches the light – and the clerk’s eye. “Just take it. It’s worth more than you would’ve raised otherwise.”

Blunt Clerk, surprised by the frivolous display of wealth, does just that.

Triss eyes her with some pity, glad that in a roundabout way they’ll be able to help the people of Maribor, including the refugees fleeing the southern border kingdoms. “I’m sure your talk would have been lovely,” Triss calls after the clerk as she retreats.

“Finally,” Philippa mutters once they’re alone again. Her attention returns to _King Goidemar’s Chronicle_ and its conspicuously missing page.

She holds the book open, pages down, and shakes it carefully.

A slip of paper drifts to the floor.

It’s a weathered piece of parchment with a hastily scribbled message in Elder Speech.

Philippa can make out bits and pieces. There’s mention of Elder Blood. A meeting in a garden bath with a statue. As she translates what she can aloud, Triss grips her arm. She knows where they need to go next.

* * *

The clues lead them to a bath house in the style of a hanging garden. It’s as lavish as Ard Skellig’s natural spring is utilitarian.

Ferns, palms, monstera and other plants and vines fill the enclosure. A domed glass roof sits atop its white walls and columns. It’s divine – and suspiciously empty despite the busy street just outside.

They explore further, rounding each corner with caution. Eventually they come to a statue of a woman: beautiful, important, and unnamed. She stands watch over steaming baths, covered in creeping ivy as if it’s growing from within the stone. Feainnewedd, unmistakable to Philippa and Triss, is carved into the platform at her feet. The ears of the statue are broken off at the tips.

They wonder at its significance, though before they can put the pieces together, there’s a sudden commotion.

Philippa takes a deep breath, holding Triss’s worried gaze. It’s an ambush. She feels the truth of it without question; Temerian sentries were patrolling between the archives and the baths, and any one of them could be in Fercart's thrall.

If she’s honest with herself, she's known it was coming one way or another since Skellige. Somehow, Vilgefortz is always a step ahead.

“I’ll handle this,” she assures Triss with a nod. She walks toward the main hall leaving Triss behind. Just her luck that the one time she wears a dress she has to fight untold enemies.

Guards wearing Temerian colors – blue and white – swarm the corridor. The sound of their heavy footsteps is thunderous, and they don’t stop to negotiate.

Philippa takes position. In an instant, her longsword materializes, heavy in her grasp. One hand steadies the pommel against her hip.

Fercart was absolutely behind this. _Rat._

* * *

Triss stands alone, hearing the fracas in the main hall.

Some part of her wants to wring her hands and fret over how even with careful planning, they ended up _here._ A greater part of her simply wants to help.

She knows she’s no use in this fight. Close-quarters combat has never been her strength nor has offensive magic. She has no proficiency in any weapon, and whatever silly diversion she might conjure could disorient Philippa as easily as it disorients their assailants.

In Aretuza, she excelled at scholarly pursuits – anything that challenged her mind. As a mage advisor, that extended to investigations and sorting out conflicts to find compromises even when the outlook was hopeless.

She tries to have hope now, even as her frazzled mind fails her.

Moving through the chamber, she searches for another exit. There has to be a way for Philippa and herself to escape without being followed. One that didn’t involve putting themselves at Vilgefortz’s mercy, of which she doubts he has much. Especially for two pests who’ve been trailing him, primed to steal his prize from under his nose. She’s glad, suddenly, for Jaskier’s letter. It gives her some hope that Vilgefortz won’t ever get his hands on Ciri. Not while Geralt watches over her.

Before she knows it, three guards appear through the mist of the hot baths. They must have slipped past Philippa, though Triss trusts she hasn’t been bested.

Their swords are unsheathed, pointed toward her.

“Remember, we take her alive,” one says, his voice gruff.

“Oh, so this is the king’s pet,” another replies with a mocking laugh.

The third guard simply puts away his sword.

_He probably thinks this will be easy._

And he must, because he stomps forward, reaching for her arm and tugging toward the exit hard enough for it to hurt. She pulls away and slaps him powerfully. He grits his teeth and wraps both arms around Triss. Before he can lift her, she brings her knee up between his legs with force. He lets go, yelping as he falls to his knees, hands clutching his groin.

The other guards, who had been content to watch before, close in now.

“Behave, or we will cut you down,” Gruff Voice shouts. He’s menacing, inching closer with the tip of his blade pointed at her neck.

She steps back until she’s pressed against the ivy-covered walls.

All three guards stand before her, swords raised. She can barely hear anything from the hallway beyond, and she doesn’t know if that’s from adrenaline or because something’s happened to Philippa. The panic rises quickly.

Kicked Nuts sneers, grip tightening on his sword. He never gets to swing it.

She screams, summoning every ounce of her chaos quicker and more forcefully than she’s ever done before. The vines and roots of plants all around them whip forward, immobilizing the guards. Vines creep up their arms and necks, squeezing tight.

They gurgle as their windpipes are crushed and their faces go red then blue. They claw at their own necks, scratching themselves until they bleed.

Triss slides down the wall, blacking out before she can watch them fall.

* * *

The first man strikes, and Philippa easily parries before slicing up into his side. She finds the weaknesses in his armor with magical precision. When she tugs her blade from his flesh, blood sprays against the pristine walls of the corridor. 

It’s methodical. Not a dance but a careful execution of necessary steps to get from point A to point B. Philippa isn’t artful; she doesn’t care if her cuts are beautiful. She only cares that she’s efficient.

Several more men attack at once. She makes a fist and tries for a spell that depletes as little chaos as possible, hoping to keep her strength. It works: two men groan as they crumple to the floor. Others watch on, momentarily stunned by their sudden collapse. Lifting her sword high, she brings it down with force, chopping one man’s sword arm clean off before he can think to defend himself. He screams before fainting.

Without pause, she draws the blade back up, slicing into another guard. He tries to parry, but again, she casts a simple spell. His eyeballs suddenly liquefy in their sockets. He screams and she pushes her blade clean through his underarm into his chest.

Before she knows it, there’s only one left. He roars as he charges for her. She falls to the ground at the last second and heaves her sword up into his gut as he stumbles over her. Panicked and fading, he tries to choke her, bloodied hands scrambling on her skin. She reaches into her belt for her stiletto and plunges it into his temple.

Pushing his body off, she takes a deep breath, adjusting the skirt of her dress.

And just as she does, there’s a scream from the other room.

* * *

Philippa is harried as she comes through the doorway. She leaves behind butchered bodies and severed limbs. Thick rivers of blood trail her, draining into the bath in the center of the room.

Her sword drops, clattering against the tile floor.

“Triss?” she calls out, increasingly frantic as she searches through the mist. A few guards must have snuck past her in the fight, and she feels dread deep in her gut at the thought of what might have ensued.

When she finds Triss on the ground leaning against a wall, surrounded by men blue in the face, she finally lets herself breathe. They lay unnaturally, hilts cradled in gripless hands, if they’re held at all.

Triss’s eyes rise to meet Philippa’s, bright with relief. The blood dripping from her nose smears against her lips. Philippa takes measured steps as she draws closer to the carnage.

“Philippa, give me a hand.” Triss wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve, mustering strength so as not to shake from fatigue. Her chaos is thoroughly spent.

“Easy. Let’s rest a moment.” Philippa takes the hand Triss holds up but instead of hoisting her to her feet, she sits down beside her. She wraps an arm around Triss’s shoulder, noting shallow, labored breaths.

Triss focuses on the steady thump of Philippa’s heartbeat. Eventually, with a squeeze, Philippa stands.

“We’re all clear. Let’s find a way out of here so we can leave this infernal kingdom,” she says.

“What about Vilgefortz?” Triss asks, climbing to her feet with some help.

 _“The Hero of Sodden,”_ Philippa’s voice drips with sarcasm before turning serious, “outflanked us finally. I don’t think we’ll be winning this battle any time soon.”

“We can’t fight him on our own,” Triss realizes with a grimace.

Philippa squeezes Triss’s hands with a sad half-smile. “No, we can’t.”

As they prepare to leave, something catches their eye.

Where the mysterious statue once stood, the ground has collapsed in to reveal an old tunnel rimmed with ivy beneath. They draw closer to investigate, sensing powerful magic.

Philippa wonders if this is yet another trap. It wouldn’t be the first they’ve walked into with clear eyes. But something in her feels that their survival wasn’t planned – or Triss tearing up the roots. They have the element of surprise just this once, and she’s willing to take this chance if it means having something to show for their months long chase.

They take it slow as they descend, and it becomes obvious once they reach the clearing that this bath house, like so much else in Maribor, is built on elven ruins.

The hideout is a cave that was once a fine chamber, judging by the ruin’s destroyed walls intermingling with slabs of rock and debris. There’s a small pool of water glowing eerily nearby.

In the corner is a four-poster bed, and opposite that is a heavy desk, some shelves with books and jarred organs, chests, and lanterns for light. Flame-bladed swords are mounted on the one intact wall. In the center of the space is something that resembles an examination table with leg stirrups. Everything looks taken from a palace somewhere, dropped into this dank underground cave.

Triss and Philippa share a look. _This had to be Vilgefortz’s hideout._

They work quickly to go through the items on his desk. Journals and open books reveal evidence of research into Ciri and the Cintran bloodline, though not the missing page from _King Goidemar’s Chronicle_. None of it links to Vilgefortz directly or names any of his collaborators, but it’s obvious that all the vague talk of a coup is by his hand.

A slow seizure of power, he says. These ideas are written in among notes on reproductive systems and experimental medical practices. It makes something in Triss and Philippa flare.

“Grab what you can. We’re teleporting. Vilgefortz can come find us if he’d like, but by then we’ll have a force of our own to contend with.”

“Strength in numbers,” Triss nods. “I can’t believe he’s planning _a coup.”_

“Here I thought we’d had an original idea,” Philippa sighs. She holds out her hands until a swirling portal appears before them.

* * *

“Okay, _now_ sip. Good. Really taste it. Hold it in your mouth, feel it on your tongue. Don’t swallow. Aspirate the wine. Good, good. Christen, you’re doing so well. Just purse your lips a bit more.”

The students follow their instructor’s directions as best they can, holding their wine glasses by the stems.

“A good sorceress knows her wine. She can describe the body, detect the tannins, and appreciate the mouth-feel. She understands balance and what makes a perfect yield. She’s a sommelier, a Renaissance woman of many talents. And if she wants to impress kings and nobles alike, she must show expertise in the finest of the fine. Whoever becomes Toussaint’s advisor will need to be especially skilled in this regard,” Margarita Laux-Antille says with a perfect wink as she glides between rows of novitiates.

Her students smile up at her. This is clearly their favorite class.

Suddenly, in the front of the room, a portal appears. Triss and Philippa trip out as gracefully as they can, arms full with every document they could carry out of Vilgefortz’s hideout.

Rita rests her hands on her hips and smiles despite herself, sighing at the sight before her.

“You know you can just mail your alumni fees, ladies?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue sitcom jingle.
> 
> Another enormous thank you (and happy birthday!) to Stew. Scheduling applause for 8 PM.


	9. The Rectoress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss and Philippa flee Maribor for Aretuza in the hopes of recruiting Margarita Laux-Antille to their cause. However, circumstances have changed since they last received word from the magical academy.

_The sun casts short shadows on the clean, open streets, high above the orange tiled roofs of the city. Everything is well kept, even far from the royal palace. Smithies, butchers, and taverns serving lunch spill out and fill the air with an irresistible liveliness._

_Lyria is a wonderful place to live, Rita suspects._

_She smiles as an exasperated man passes, tugging a young boy soaked up to his waist by the arm – clearly his mischievous son._

_“Keeping on your best behavior, young man?” she teases kindly as the boy stops his sulking to give her a gap-toothed smile, the punishment to come briefly forgotten._

_“Please, miss. A smile from a beautiful woman will only make him bolder,” the handsome father answers with a laugh. He tips his feathered hat in greeting._

_She smiles wider._

_“Eyes forward, Laux-Antille.”_

_“Need I remind you that you’re no longer my instructor?”_

_“Then as your friend and_ not _your instructor,” Tissaia nearly snorts, chin raised as they glide along the cobblestone path toward their destination, “I must point out that he wore a ring on his finger.”_

_“Pity,” Rita sighs, gazing over her shoulder just the once as the man and his son walk on. She loops her arm through Tissaia’s, pulling her closer. “Don’t be cross, Tissaia. You have my undivided attention.”_

_“This is serious,” Tissaia reminds her._

_They’d teleported into the city not for fun and games but to track the power signature of a prospective recruit. The world was growing restless, and capable mages were needed now more than ever._

_“Believe me, I know. One more lord’s daughter and there won’t be a generation of sorceresses to follow us.”_

_Tissaia takes a moment to collect her thoughts, fingers fiddling with her medallion._

_“Those noble girls keep Aretuza running and our brotherhood in the good graces of the kingdoms we serve.” Tissaia turns on her heel, eyes narrowing as she regards Rita, stiff collar framing her severe face. “Would you do things differently in my position, facing the same challenges?”_

_Rita meets her stare, keeping ahold of Tissaia’s hand. She squeezes gently. “Every enchantress owes you a debt of gratitude she’ll never be able to repay. You’ve guided us with strength and wisdom. I understand why you do it all. I’d just find another way.”_

_When Tissaia says nothing back, merely watching her in that careful, inscrutable way of hers, Rita sighs with a soft laugh. She tugs them to the side of the road beneath the shade of an oak tree._

_“We could all do with a little less extravagance. How many riches does each member of the Brotherhood hold in personal wealth throughout the Continent? Why do we need handouts from petty lords, compromising our ranks? I love our girls. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them, but with such limited space… might we not seek out_ truly _gifted conduits? How many of our current novices will grow up to be a Philippa Eilhart? Or even a Yennefer of Vengerberg?”_

_Tissaia inhales sharply at the mention of Yennefer. Her thin painted lips part as if to speak, but before she can, the sound of a girl laughing catches their attention._

_Both women turn toward the scene before them. A girl, no more than 10 years old, picks dandelions in the small strip of yard next to her home. Beside her is an open shed with tools and a bench for carpentry. Her mother watches on with a soft smile before returning to her work carving into a plank of wood._

_“Is she ours?” Rita asks._

_“I believe so.” Tissaia looks to Rita, her gaze as tender as she’s ever seen it. “She seems happy.”_

_Rita shrugs, smiling. “All children are happy when they’re loved. It doesn’t have to be a loss to leave with us. Let’s go meet her.”_

_They cross the path toward the small home nestled between clusters of Lyrian row houses and shops. Rita trails as Tissaia leads, watching as the young girl blows puffs of fuzz into the air._

_Her mother dusts the front of her apron and greets them at the edge of the yard._

_“What can I do for you, ladies?” she asks. Her Lyrian accent is strong and sure._

_“What_ _can you do for us, indeed.” Tissaia’s gaze shifts to the girl picking flowers, then back to the mother. “Are you aware that your daughter has the gift of magic?”_

 _“The gift of_ poppycock _. Whatever it is you think you know about my daughter, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”_

_“I very much doubt it. Come, girl,” Tissaia calls out, gloved hand beckoning her closer._

_“Charlie,” the mother tries to warn as the girl nears. “Stay back.”_

_“We’re here to collect her, and we’re willing to pay handsomely for the privilege.” Tissaia finds Charlie’s gaze and holds it. “Now, tell your mother what it is you can do.”_

_“Perhaps you turned a smelly boy into a rat,” Rita supplies in the hope of cutting through the tension._

_Charlie blushes. Her mother goes pale._

_“Enough,” the woman holds up a hand, pulling Charlie behind her. “My son is an arbalest in the Queen's standing army – never home and in constant danger of death. I just want to keep my daughter safe. To let her be a child. Please, she knows nothing of spells and witchery.”_

_“You’re right. She doesn’t – not yet. But she’ll learn.” Tissaia reaches into the pocket of her cloak for her coin purse._

_“Are you hearing me? You aren’t taking my daughter. There isn’t a price you could pay.”_

_“There’s always a price. One-hundred gulden.”_

_“Leave.”_

_“Five-hundred.” Tissaia looks through the mother. “At some point, the option to be compensated for what happens next will disappear. Six-hundred.”_

_There’s a silent battle of wills – a standoff between two matriarchs – and it makes something in Rita uneasy. Before she can move to intervene, the woman drops to her knees with clasped hands and a hard look in her eye. She’s defiant even as she begs._

_By the state of Charlie’s face, Rita knows this must be an unfamiliar sight for the girl, to see her fierce mother brought low. And when none of her proud, grief-stricken words sounds like assent, Tissaia holds out a hand as if to summon a portal. Rita senses the shift in the air._

_To her surprise, Charlie does too._

_Without warning, the girl bolts for the street, away from the situation spiraling out of control. Rita gives chase before Tissaia can even think to cast a paralyzing spell._

_Charlie is small and agile, fitting through crowds with ease, but Rita doesn’t trail far behind. Despite her dress and impractical lady’s shoes, she follows in perfect form, deftly weaving through the bustle until she comes to an open square. In the center is a fountain where children play, and beyond it stands Charlie._

_“I won’t go,” Charlie cries out._

_Rita knows she must be frightened by the swift change in her circumstances. All because of whatever frivolous display of chaos caught Tissaia’s attention. She knows that pain, but she knows what’s on the other side of it too._

_“Then you won’t go. These negotiations are silly grown-up things full of bluster.”_

_“Don’t lie. That old woman wants to take me,” Charlie screams. The water in the fountain stirs. Onlookers step back in alarm. “She made mother cry.”_

_She lashes out then – unthinking, Rita realizes. Not yet in control of the great force within her. The ground shakes, and the children nearby lose their footing. One girl falls, smashing her head open on the edge of the stone fountain. She goes limp as blood pools around her._

_The other children run._

_It only makes Charlie panic more._

_“Oh, Charlie. Take a breather, would you? Think of flowers or something,” Rita sighs. She walks closer to the bleeding girl in a calm rush, not wanting to betray the seriousness of the moment. She kneels there as healing spells flow from luminous hands, and before long, the young girl’s injuries begin to heal._

_“What are you doing to her?”_

_“A little healing. Do you know who this is?”_

_“Agnes. She plays with me sometimes.”_

_“Is she nice?”_

_“Always.”_

_“That’s a shame,” Rita says, looking down at the poor girl. “These kinds of mishaps are more fun when a nasty piece of work is on the receiving end. No matter. She’ll be fine.”_

_Agnes’s heart rate slowly returns to normal, her cheeks rosy instead of the sickly pallor they had been moments before. Charlie inches nearer, watching with interest as Rita continues to work._

_“Magic requires patience, delicacy, and intelligence. Not to mention the humble, but calm, endurance of defeat and failure,” Rita instructs in a low voice, just for Charlie’s ears. “Life can be so very fragile. We’re all vulnerable, and at some point in our lives, we’ll fall. We’ll be tested, but with the right guidance, we can overcome anything we put our minds to. We can mitigate failures and help the fallen, because that’s what sorceresses do.”_

_“You can teach me?”_

_“I can. I will, if you’ll come with me to Aretuza.”_

_“But that’s where the witches are,” the girl says with a shiver._

_“Is it? Well,_ ‘witch’ _is just a dirty word for a woman in control of her destiny.”_

_Charlie nods, looking upon her friend with sad eyes._

_Rita gives Charlie’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “I’m so impressed by your power already. Once you understand how to control it, you’re going to be even more of a force to reckon with.”_

_“Can I say goodbye?”_

_“Of course. Go on. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”_

_When she looks up, Tissaia and the mother – who seems resigned to the farewell barreling toward her – stand over her shoulder, watching in heavy silence._

_Tissaia gives Rita one firm nod before teleporting away._

* * *

Rita’s day begins like any other.

She reclines against the hot sand, bathing in the rays of the morning sun. Term papers lay in a pile beside her marking themselves. _The perks of magic._ She stretches as she sits up finally, ready to get to work in earnest.

Humming a sweet tune, she pulls a robe over her shapely form. To any onlookers – though there are none – she would seem an unburdened, unbothered creature here in this place. The south of nowhere, a hidden cove in a forbidden kingdom, a place all to herself.

She gathers the few items she brought along, collecting them with elegant hands and graceful movements. When she’s ready, she summons a portal, kicking up sand in a spinning wheel of chaos ready to whisk her far away.

With a final look at the tranquility she leaves behind, she steps through. And where there had been clear skies, now lightning flashes and thunder rumbles. Rain batters windows as a storm rolls in from the sea.

Aretuza bears the brunt without a scratch.

The portal snaps shut behind an unfazed Rita, disappearing into the nothingness of her private quarters.

She bathes in perfumed waters, rinsing away sand and sweat, and when she stands from the bath, drying herself with the softest linen, she dabs just a touch of perfume to her pulse points.

Next, she dresses in an immaculately pressed skirt and blouse, finishing with a waistcoat and a pendant in the shape of a saltire. Her blond hair hangs in loose waves just past her shoulders. Heeled boots lace themselves with a flick of the wrist.

As she walks the dark corridors, making her way to the dining hall, students greet her with shy smiles, still groggy from the early morning hour.

It tickles Rita to imagine these students as they once were: scared _shitless_ of the impenetrably cold Tissaia de Vries. Far too nervous to risk eye contact, let alone muster the courage for a smile.

Rita figures if they have to wear ugly, ill-fitting sack dresses, the least she can do is allow them to be at ease in their own home.

* * *

The dining hall is dim with enchanted brazier light, and the stone ceiling arches low overhead, trapping the heat. It’s cavernous and comfortable in its own way, with heavy wooden tables throughout.

Rita finds her usual seat next to Giltine and waits for the morning discourse to begin.

Topic of the day: conflict, though not with empires. Instead, it’s lovers and budgets, and, in terms vague enough to be spoken aloud in mixed company, the power source fueling Aretuza. Rita doesn’t have the stomach to doom her hopeless students to a slimy existence, but needs must.

Inevitably, breakfast gossip turns to her.

Rita could spill the contents of her troubled heart. There was Lars, Tissaia, and the Brotherhood breathing down her neck since her appointment. It would make for delicious conversation, and there is a part of her that desires feedback on the many dilemmas she faces.

But instead, she hums sweetly into her goblet of lemon-cucumber-infused water – important hydration for that afternoon’s lesson – then dangles the lowest hanging fruit she can spare.

“The sun this morning was divine.”

Giltine smirks, steepling his fingers as he leans in closer. Brazier light twinkles devilishly in his eye. “Teleporting to your tarty little beach again then. Was Lars allowed this time?”

Rita glances sidelong at him, most unimpressed. She fingers the stem of her goblet in thought, but before she can answer, their nosy tablemate gooses her neck from several seats over. “You shouldn’t use portals so wastefully.”

“What you call wasteful I call self-care.”

Giltine, a true ally, agrees. “Our dear Korinne is just envious. She can barely levitate a pebble. Portals must be a sore spot.”

“That’s Lady Korinne to you.”

“Apologies, Lady Karen.”

Korinne huffs. Rita looks on sympathetically at the busybody. A truly talentless student who was sent to Aretuza by her over-indulgent duke father. _A choice made under previous management._

“Wouldn’t you rather be eating with your friends? Girls your own age?” Rita tries.

“The few friends I had are now _eels.”_

“Well,” Rita’s cheeks dimple as she sucks in a breath. “I better be off. Classes to teach. Young minds to mold. A rectoress’s job is never done.”

“You work so hard, darling,” Giltine oozes.

“I know, darling.”

Giltine and Rita air-kiss noisily, parting with a final fond _‘darling’._

* * *

Triss and Philippa crash-land in Rita’s classroom.

Her students are mid-swill and shocked by the sudden intrusion. One girl dribbles wine on to her dress.

She dismisses them with a wave of her hand, breezily instructing each student to practice wine tasting in their free time.

Rita would keep an ear out for word of any stolen casks. Resourcefulness would be on the grading rubric.

* * *

Triss and Philippa perch side by side against now-empty desks.

Thunder cracks and lightning flashes in the distance beyond the tall classroom windows.

Philippa crosses her arms over her chest, chin raised. “We have a proposal we’d like you to consider, Rita.”

“A reasonable one, I’m sure.” Rita points toward the stuffed satchel at their feet. She’d fetched it for their hoard of scrolls, knowing there must be a good story behind their curious visit. “In exchange for the bag I’ve so kindly lent you. It was a gift from a treasured ex-beau, so I would like it back at some point.”

“And you’ll get it back, just as soon as we get where we’re going.” Triss raises an eyebrow.

“Fair terms,” Rita concedes with a smile, kicking at Philippa’s boot to strip that serious look off her face. “Out with it then.”

“How are things here?” Philippa’s voice is low, cryptic and appraising.

“Tell me what you know first, spy master.”

Philippa breathes out a sigh, kicking back at Rita’s own boot. “It’s not much.”

“That’s a first.”

“To put it mildly, we popped off to the countryside for a spell.”

“Oh, yummy. The two of you together?”

“Rita,” Triss warns.

“Fine. Answer this then: who do you think is the current rectoress of Aretuza?”

Triss and Philippa share a look of confusion. A grave Triss leans in closer. “You ask as if it isn’t Tissaia, but that can’t possibly—”

“Stregobor.” Rita cuts in flatly.

Triss grips Philippa’s arm reflexively. “He’s rector?”

“No,” Rita scoffs. “I am. Obviously. He’s just the rodent who instigated Tissaia’s removal. Punishment for her insubordination, according to the Council. So, to answer your first question, things are wildly different yet radically the same. I’ve been able to chart my own course up to a point, but Aretuza is Aretuza – for better or worse.”

“And what would it take to adopt meaningful reforms now that you’re rectoress?” Philippa continues, orienting herself amid the surprising news.

“Nothing I’d be willing to do.”

If change means battling Stregobor and the Brotherhood, Rita wants no part.

Philippa, quiet and still, is careful with her next words. “When you have friends in high places, sometimes it’s enough just to say.”

Rita considers this, catching the implication. “So, this is your proposal.”

“Indeed. We’re looking for sorceresses we can trust, whose wise judgment will help us make the Continent a better, fairer place.”

“These are lofty ideals, ladies. Especially with war brewing in the south.”

“Maybe so.” Philippa shrugs, aloof despite the pitch she’s making. “For your safety and ours, I can’t say more. Not unless you agree to join us. Just know this: you wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Power is most effective when it's least perceived. Putting ourselves in a position that attracts conflict with others would surely undermine our aim.”

“I don’t see the point in taking sides one way or another, in war or in politics. Aretuza is above both, and my students are my priority. I won’t gamble with their well-being… But I can appreciate your likely intent. If you’re successful at—” Rita gestures vaguely, searching for the right words, “placing yourselves in a position of power that’s above even the Brotherhood, how would it be an improvement over the existing paradigm?”

“At a minimum,” Philippa glances at Triss, “we’re not Stregobor or Artorius, and that must count for something.”

“And would Aretuza receive the funding it needs to train powerful sorceresses, rather than having to take in wealthy noble-born daughters with no talent or abilities?”

“We would happily make it a priority.”

Rita nods. Words were lovely little things, but something more was needed still.

“I’d like to take you somewhere, if you’re not in too much of a hurry to leave.”

Thunder cracks once more.

* * *

The trek to Tor Lara is agony in the rain.

Passing along the rickety wooden bridge between Aretuza and the island of Thanedd manages to unnerve all who cross it. Wet, stinging winds and a roiling ocean bite at the cliffside below, spurring them on faster until they’re sheltered in the imposing tower.

Rita’s class is already gathered, drenched, with jars in hand. The chamber beyond them lets in a single beam of blinding light. The rumble of thunder is more pronounced the closer they get to the center.

This is every Aretuza girl’s least favorite lesson, and one that happens only as often as thunderstorms allow. Rita dreads it as much as they do.

“Gather round, girls. I’d like you to meet my friends, Triss Merigold and Philippa Eilhart. Famed sorceresses both. When they were your age, they stood right where you’re standing now, facing down the same challenge. I’m sure they were pissing themselves in fear, too, but they persevered. And now look at them,” she gestures with a proud smile. “Aretuza’s legacy – one you’ll be a part of some day.”

Rita holds out a hand, ushering Triss and Philippa closer. Her wide-eyed students look upon the pair in awe.

“Would one of you like to show these girls how it’s done?” Rita questions.

Philippa, reliably uninterested in revisiting girlish lessons, turns to Triss. Something passes between them that Rita can’t quite put her finger on. A weariness, a teasing look, and then Triss steps forward, shoulder checking Philippa as she goes.

She stands beneath the opening high above them. The glow of lightning waiting to strike shines upon her pretty face just so.

Rita hands her a spare bottle.

“When I was a student, I thought I’d die here,” Triss laughs. “I was shaking so badly; I nearly dropped my bottle. I’d seen girls shocked by bolts of lightning while our rectoress stood by watching.

“It was to make us strong, or so we were told,” she finishes quietly, bottle held high.

“That’s not how things are done anymore,” Rita promises gently, her students huddling closer. They watch on, utterly rapt. Philippa hangs back, more bored than worried.

A clap of thunder booms loudly, followed by a bolt of lightning snaking down faster than anything the girls had ever seen.

Triss steadies herself, calmly collecting the lightning. Confining chaos, restoring order. She finishes with a curtsy, handing off her bottle to the student tasked with collecting them.

Rita can sense the racing pulses of her class. She rests her hands on the shoulders of the first girl up. “Just remember to breathe. We’ve practiced _and practiced and practiced._ There should be nothing to fear.”

And like clockwork, each girl takes position, jar in hand, and fails. Rita is quick to divert the lightning bolts back up and out of the tower – and quicker still to help students knocked down by their force. No one is seriously injured, and no one impresses.

Triss and Philippa are quiet, analyzing, as the true extent of Aretuza’s necrosis is revealed. Rita catches their gaze with a sad look. These girls, try as they might to overcome their physical disposition, haven’t an ounce of talent for magic.

The last girl up is tall for her age with a determined look on her face. Triss steps forward, leaning in so only she can hear the advice she has to give.

The girl holds out her jar. Lightning strikes, falling perfectly into it.

“Very good, Charlie,” Rita claps finally. “Lightning is the ultimate expression of chaos. Controlling it is essential for any young sorceress looking to ascend.”

She takes a breath as she regards the defeated students before her. “You can all return to your dormitories and rest.”

As the last girl files out of the chamber, Philippa whistles. “That could have gone better.”

“If we were recruiting true conduits, perhaps,” Rita sighs, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Aretuza is lost.”

“Then let us help,” Triss tries, resting a hand on Rita’s arm.

“Believe me, I want to. But you both know the political pressure that'd bring. How can Aretuza afford that risk right now?”

“So, it’s a no.”

“It’s a _not right now,”_ Rita explains as gently as she can.

“Understood. The offer doesn’t have an expiration date. As long as we’re breathing, we’re willing to help.”

“I know Tissaia would appreciate it if she were here.”

“And where is our dear benefactress?” Philippa asks.

“Who knows? Hopefully taking a nap on a warm beach somewhere. The woman deserves a vacation.”

Rita has other suspicions, however. Of all the losses at Sodden, one seemed to ache deepest in Tissaia. She would run herself ragged trying to right the wrongs of that fateful battle.

“She isn’t with Vilgefortz, is she?”

“I can’t imagine so. He’s been by the side of Stregobor and Artorius all this time. An odd thing that, considering he so openly defied them by leading the forces that travelled to Sodden. Triss, you were there. You know.”

“I do.” Triss chews her lip.

Philippa cuts in then, measuring her words as she warns, “Vilgefortz isn’t to be trusted, Rita. Give him as wide a berth as you can manage without raising suspicions.”

Rita nods once, not wanting to dig deeper just yet. The right time would come.

“I'm sure you’ll be wanting to leave now, being so busy with this mission of yours. But—” Rita claps her hands together hopefully, “perhaps you'd join me in my private quarters for dinner? Stay for a drink _at least.”_

* * *

“I know you’re more of an oyster enthusiast, Philippa, but I hope this meal isn’t too displeasing.”

“Steak will do just fine, though I hate to deprive you in any way of the hot, juicy meat you so crave.”

Rita closes her eyes with a lewd sigh. “I do love those juices.”

“Wetness dripping down your chin making the most delicious mess. Pungent in just the right way. Who can get enough?” Triss joins in to Philippa’s dismay.

“I knew you’d understand.”

“It’s just a shame you’re usually drinking the juices off someone else’s plate,” Triss laughs, every inch the wicked witch of dinner. Philippa hides her smile.

“Not such a shame. I don’t seem to suffer as much indigestion as others.”

“A limited diet prevents indigestion just as well as stealing from another’s plate.” Triss thinks for a moment before continuing. “And actually, there’s no scientific basis for that anyway. You’re just horny.”

“And that astuteness is why you'll be giving a guest lecture,” Rita finishes, chewing her steak with a smile.

* * *

Dinner is long finished.

Still, Rita uncorks a fresh bottle of her favorite Toussaint red, pouring far too much into each of their glasses.

Triss presses herself closer to Philippa on the seat they now share, cradling her wine between healthy sips.

Rita stares over the rim of her glass, eyes narrowed as she tries to suss just what it is she’s seeing. She’s tipsy but not blind, and Philippa and Triss had been suspiciously tactile throughout the evening. Wordlessly passing things across the table, knowing what the other needs without speaking, touches lingering moments too long.

 _What an odd couple,_ she thinks.

Philippa had always been puzzling. Wicked fun in her younger days, though duplicitous in all things pertaining to courtly intrigue (and positively unrepentant when it came to fragile men). She was an inspiration to ambitious novitiates who craved power and the means to hold it.

To imagine her now, hip to hip with one of the kindest and smartest students Rita has ever had the pleasure to teach – though only briefly, as Tissaia had taken a special interest, nourishing her great potential as an influential mage advisor – causes her head to swim.

Who even knew Triss enjoyed oysters?

 _Maybe I should expand my culinary horizons,_ Rita wonders, _though any sampling of new delights will have to wait until Lars is dealt with._

“Ladies, I need advice. Normally, this is when I rub my crystal ball until Yennefer appears so that she can share in my romantic misery, but that option isn’t available at the moment for obvious, depressing reasons. And I have had _a lot_ to drink with my dinner. You two are an _awful_ influence.” Rita presses a finger to her lips before taking another pull.

Triss and Philippa share a dubious look.

“If this ends up being about a married man—” Rita holds up a hand, stopping Philippa mid-sentence.

“It is, actually. _N'te dice'en._ Please save your judgment for later.”

“Oh, Rita,” Triss sighs sympathetically. “Go on.”

“My kind, loving, handsome Lars. He’s wonderful. There's never fuss when I drag him to events I’d die before attending alone, and his porterhouse is very palatable, if you'll forgive another innuendo.”

“Then what’s the issue?” Triss asks.

“He doesn’t entirely approve of my new position as rectoress. More of my day is dedicated to work than play, and that cuts into our time together. Not so long ago, even the sight of his feathered cap made my heart flutter. Now it only fills me with ennui.”

“Do you love him?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not, if everything else about being with him makes you unhappy,” Triss reasons cautiously.

Philippa rolls her eyes, though her arm resting on the back of their seat settles against Triss’s shoulder – just for closeness’ sake. “Look on the bright side. If you do decide to stick it out, how many more years does a normal human man really have left in him? Mortal lovers are wonderfully temporary.”

“That’s not the comfort you think it is,” Rita hiccups sadly.

“In that case, there are other cows grazing in the pasture, Rita. Get ahold of yourself.”

“I do appreciate the sentiment, but I need you to deliver it with more gentleness.”

“Rita, please,” Philippa pinches the bridge of her nose. “For the love of all that is good in this rotten world, just end it with him. Right now. I’ll get the pen and parchment from your study and then we’ll craft the perfect breakup letter for your dear Lars. You’d be doing his sad little family a favor.”

“You’re right.” Rita delicately dabs away her tears before draining the last of her wine. “It’s time.”

“Good girl.” Philippa reaches forward, patting Rita’s hand with the barest of touches. As she does, she catches Triss’s eye.

 _‘We’re leaving for Montecalvo tonight._ Before _she can open another bottle and convince us to go wild swimming in the Great Sea.’_

* * *

_It’s sunny, warm, and smoky in Tissaia’s office. Just as Rita’s always remembered it. A space that terrifies some girls and comforts others. For Rita, it’s always been a comfort, even countless years after she first found herself exploring the trinkets displayed throughout the study._

_As an instructor, it’s a place of refuge – where Tissaia makes her feel valued and considered in her decision-making._

_Now, Rita takes a seat, waiting. Dust motes floating in beams of light surround her. She lays back, hands behind her head and legs crossed at the ankle, as she waits and waits._

_Only when her eyelids begin to drift shut does Tissaia finally enter. With sure steps, she draws near and breathes deep at the sight of Rita. This is what she’d wanted. A meeting, discreet, known only to them._

_“Punctuality is the politeness of kings,” Rita teases, eyes still closed. “Or so you always say.”_

_“Feet off,” Tissaia points to her legs resting on the couch, propped up on the armrest. Rita smiles, now fully awake, humoring her. “Uncivilized creature.”_

_“I was sitting like a true lady for the first hour. Legs together, shoulders back. Then the second agonizing hour of waiting hit. Be thankful you didn’t find me in your chair. It looks comfortable.”_

_Tissaia smirks almost imperceptibly as she takes her seat._

_Rita observes her calm ritual: packing her long pipe, lighting it by drawing the flame from a nearby lamp, reclining as she inhales the tobacco smoke._

_“Why are we here, Tissaia?”_

_The rectoress's exhale is a thick haze._

_“Vilgefortz and I are gathering a small force. With it, we’ll set sail whether or not the Brotherhood agrees to our plan.”_

_Rita hums with studied evenness, pondering Tissaia’s words. “And if they don’t, whatever force you take with you will be a fraction of what you need to win, effectively making this a suicide mission. What becomes of Aretuza when you’re martyred?”_

_Tissaia looks away, still smoking her pipe. Rita gives her time._

_“A simplistic view, and one I consider beneath you,” Tissaia speaks finally, resting her pipe upon its stand. “I’ll survive, and Stregobor and his cohorts will make my position here untenable because of it. I require a successor. One whose methods I believe in, whose priorities align with my own, who will put these girls and the survival of this institution first._

_“I’ll go to Sodden. Not to fight, but to ensure the North isn’t engulfed in a war it can’t win. You’ve heard the tales of what Nilfgaard does to its mages. So unless you want to trade in your lowcut gowns and fancy skirts for boxy, black manteaux stylishly paired with a shaved head and an expendable existence, you’ll hope I’m successful.”_

_“I was with them until the shaved head,” Rita sighs as she carefully approaches Tissaia’s desk. “What can I do to help?”_

_“Nothing. Stay away from Sodden. And when you’re appointed rectoress of Aretuza in my absence, accept.”_

_“Tissaia, I—”_

_“Do you remember, a few summers ago. Our trip to Lyria to fetch that girl.”_

_“Charlie?”_

_Tissaia nods. “That day, I was testing you. Congratulations, Miss Laux-Antille. You passed.”_

_“I don’t know what to say.”_

_“Don’t say anything. Just be a steadying hand on the helm. As rectoress, you’re all that stands between chaos and order.”_

* * *

Rita watches as Philippa and Triss step through their portal to Montecalvo.

Away from this place and its centuries of rigid tradition. Away from the Brotherhood, slithering novitiates who couldn’t capture lightning in a bottle, and talentless girls who avoid that fate because of land-owning fathers.

She waves with one hand, her empty glass of wine held in the other.

_Wouldn’t it be nice to do things differently?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every episode of The Witcher without Rita is a failure.
> 
> Biggest thank you to Stew for helping get this chapter off the ground. There isn't a Margarita Laux-Antille scholar I trust more.


	10. Strange Bedfellows (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allies mobilize across the Northern Kingdoms as the gathering at Montecalvo nears.

Somewhere along the lonely Pontar, a bard strums his lute. He stares out at the water, searching for inspiration. He hums and strums, repeating parts of a melody until it clicks into place.

A nearby berry bush rustles. He turns, pausing mid-rhyme, and looks. That's when _she_ steps out.

“Has the deed been done?” Jaskier asks.

Keira smiles, not the least bit shy. “Mhm. I feel like a new woman.”

Keira and Jaskier had been thrown together by fate — if fate was a plump man named Dijkstra. Sabrina had given word that the Temerian court adviser could be trusted, and so the vetting process commenced with Dijkstra set to make the final call. And truth be told, the company is fine. Traveling together is no great burden. Rather the opposite. Jaskier is a social creature by nature, and to his great approval, so is Keira Metz.

“Aw, I’ve missed having a travel buddy. The sweet sound of their trickling relief, like a babbling brook. But smaller.”

“Come again?”

“Nothing. Nevermind,” he rushes. “Here, come listen to this. Tell me what you think.”

“Not that I don't appreciate your musical artistry, but we shouldn’t waste time dallying. I need to make a bloody good first-impression.”

“Bullshit. Listening to the makings of my next number-one hit can never be a waste of time. Our mutual friend will understand.”

Keira shrugs, gathering her skirt as she plops down near the river’s edge beside Jaskier.

“Go on then, hot stuff. _Wow_ me.”

“Have no fear, m'lady. I'll do that and more.”

Keira can't say she hates it when he serenades her, floppy bangs, crow’s feet, and all. 

* * *

They ride into Oxenfurt in high spirits. The hours on the road fly by thanks to good conversation and not a little bit of flirting, a skill they both possess in spades.

Pretty birds soar overhead, and fluffy clouds dot the pristine blue sky. Oxenfurt feels like something out of a storybook, inspiring a certain sense of awe as the architectural masterpiece comes into view.

To think that it’s home to a university and not a king makes Jaskier want to whip out his quill and write a love poem to the person who first set him on the path to discover this city and all its cultural riches. His personal hero. _Himself._

It was the best of the Continent, whimsical and accessible only by bridge. And even if all the magic left the world, he knew Oxenfurt would reserve just a bit for itself.

Scholars and academics walk the cobblestone streets alongside dockworkers and finely dressed merchants, all of whom smile and nod at Jaskier as he passes, high in his saddle. 

“Ready to meet your new boss?” Jaskier sighs happily.

 _“Boss,”_ Keira laughs with a snort. “We’ll see about that.”

The tavern where Dijkstra meets them is cherry wood and red brick, with stained glass windows – more church than watering hole. Run by a Redanian family indebted to him in some fashion or another, he reserves a large table for himself in the darkest, most private corner – with the best view of everyone else.

He waits with two large pitchers of ale set before him.

As Keira and Jaskier approach, he grins.

“Dear associates. Have a seat, and let’s talk business.”

* * *

“Why can't I come?” Jaskier sulks. He stares drearily into his mug of ale.

“You have _work_ to do.” Dijkstra leans back in his creaky wooden chair with a sneer. The seat strains under his gargantuan mass. “Behave.”

“If it's any consolation, I haven’t been invited either,” Keira offers as she tosses the hair from her shoulder.

“It is, thank you. Philippa–” Jaskier starts then stops, catching Dijkstra’s narrowed gaze. “Pardon me. The honorable _Lady Philippa_ is a graceless bully. She doesn't keep anyone around who might pose a threat to her dominion of hotness.”

Dijkstra scowls. “She happily keeps me around.”

“My point exactly, Sir Count.”

“From what I've heard, she keeps Triss Merigold around, too, and she's no slouch,” Keira says, sipping daintily from her tankard.

It's Dijkstra's turn to sulk. He crosses his arms over his chest and broods.

* * *

Dijkstra departs for Montecalvo via portal – courtesy of Philippa – with strict instructions to stay out of trouble. He leaves them each with a nondescript envelope of instructions. Orders meant to be followed exactly.

Keira ignores them all.

Sabrina had easily recruited her to their cause, and she was happy enough to inform on Fercart – funny little man that he is. But to deprive her of a good time? She can serve the North _and_ have her fun.

So together, they peek around a corner of Oxenfurt’s auction house. In front of them is a room full of fine ladies milling about. Keira spots one in particular. A lovely buxom thing with a big _purse._

“Is she who we’re seducing?” Keira whispers with an eager rasp.

“Who _I’m_ seducing,” Jaskier corrects kindly.

“Two is better than one,” she counters, equally kind. Aretuza didn’t teach seduction, but she knows she'll make do.

“A fine point. Brains and beauty. I like that. Reminds me of myself.”

“Cheers to that, chum. Shall we?”

* * *

“We’re really quite good at this,” Jaskier whispers from his side of the bed. Keira lays on the other, propped upon an elbow. Between them is their mark, her pillow soaked with drool.

“I know,” she mouths back, excited.

The seduction had gone off without a hitch. Jaskier is sure their new friend — the wife of a baron suspected of Nilfgaardian sympathies — enjoyed herself several times over in between glasses of champagne and pillow talk... The sort of pillow talk that entails humblebragging about the Southern elites with whom she summers.

Poor woman must not read the news, for anyone with their wits about them would know better than to confess any connection to Nilfgaard after the Battle of Sodden.

He kisses his fingers then presses them to her slobbery lips. _Mark or no mark, she had been an excellent lover,_ Jaskier thinks to himself wistfully. While the baroness slumbers, he and Keira gather their clothes, slipping into them silently, and tiptoe carefully from the room.

Once they reach the street below, Jaskier slings an arm across Keira’s shoulder. The sun rises over tall shops and ship masts. A job well done.

“I suppose I should be on my way,” Keira says, tilting her face up to the sun. “Temeria awaits.”

“Already?” Jaskier pouts. Keira is a new friend but a treasured one all the same. Together with Triss, he may end up changing his tune on sorceresses — or at least be more specific with his cutting barbs

“Afraid so.” She pats his cheek with a smile before stepping back. As she turns to go, she stops: “Oh, I meant to ask. What did your letter from Dijkstra say?”

“That thing?” He twists his lips, pulling it from his back pocket. _“Uphold a professional standard,_ yadda yadda. _Don’t embarrass yourself,_ et cetera et cetera. _Find a Baroness R. Davidson and gather information on her husband’s southern ties._ Paraphrased.”

“Nothing about shagging her into a sex-coma?”

“It’s implied,” he holds out the letter, pointing to the bottom. “See? _Gather information.”_

Keira nods slowly. “I’m not expected to fuck Fercart, am I?”

“Dijkstra and his feathery mistress likely just want you to keep tabs on him. Steal his papers. Track his movements. That sort of thing.”

“Good.” Keira brightens, pulling Jaskier into a friendly hug. “Be well. And I look forward to hearing your next hit whenever we cross paths again. Take care of yourself now, you handsome bastard.”

Jaskier watches her go with a grin.

_Not the worst start to one’s spy career._

* * *

Far to the north, Sabrina looks out at the tree-topped mountain range protecting Philippa’s stronghold. Its green lushness is a stark contrast to the wastes of Kaedwen.

She takes it in, breathing deep the crisp air from a balcony high up in the keep. The first of their meetings is set to begin soon, and it feels like the point of no return.

“What a stunning view,” comes a husky voice.

Sabrina pushes down her annoyance.

“Very. I was just admiring it.”

“As was I.” The intruder takes position beside her. “It’s fascinating how nature forms such pulchritudinous landscapes. What exquisite resplendence must lurk beneath the Continent’s crust from whence glory sprouts – a force of such inspired creation.”

Sabrina rolls her eyes, bored. When she turns away finally, a bulbous sight greets her. “Sir Dijkstra.”

“Call me Sigi.”

“And does that usually work for you?”

“Pardon, m’lady?” He asks, lips puckering as he reaches for her hand.

His enormous paw grasps at air.

Sabrina gives him a disinterested once-over before marching past him into the columned chamber where the rest of their small party waits.

Philippa sits on the edge of the grand round table in the center of the room, one leg propped up on a chair.

Her belted-breeches are form-fitting and attractive but nonetheless transgressive, and Sabrina feels unbearably irritated between this and Dijkstra’s unwanted company.

For a moment, she regrets having left home. Then she remembers there’s still important work to do.

“Dijkstra won’t be attending today’s meeting, will he?”

“No. Is he stalking the corridors again?” Philippa hums without looking up from the parchment she holds.

“Like a pest.”

“I apologize for his repugnant behavior, Sabrina. Trust he will be dealt with accordingly. Shall it be twenty lashes?”

“He’ll just enjoy that,” Triss offers from her seat at the table, goblet of wine in hand. She swirls the red liquid with a small smirk.

“Whatever you see fit, Philippa.” Sabrina wishes someone would simply chain him to a boulder on the mountain’s peak where birds can pick his ribs clean. A pity she can’t do it herself. “Now, let’s get this over with.”

She takes the seat furthest from Philippa and Triss, arms crossed and face sour.


	11. Montecalvo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of adventuring, Philippa and Triss finally meet with their allies to plan what comes next. Inevitably, personalities clash as their sisterhood is put to its first test.

* * *

Spring

* * *

The chamber’s domed ceiling reaches high into the heavens, its frescoes depicting winged Valkyries in various states of deadly undress. Triss gazes up, lost in the timeless war being waged above.

Everything glows, dark and secret, as if Philippa always intended this place for clandestine deliberations.

She pulls her attention away from the frescoes and turns instead to Philippa. Her natural leadership and competence feel rare in an age of fumbling kings.

While others, even some sitting there beside Triss, sipping wine and trading distrustful glances, look at Philippa with judgment, Triss knows better.

They’re valued allies who trust one another with a vision of radical change. The getting there will be dangerous. Faith is paramount. And Philippa, sharp and reliable, is a partner worth prizing. Dijkstra on the other hand…

“We could nip this in the bud. Call in our Special Forces before Vilgefortz can escape to the South. Foul traitors brought to the Northern sovereigns for judgment. A befitting end.”

“If we strike too quickly, we’ll just be inciting war on a new front. It’s not like you to be this rash,” Philippa says, words clipped.

“It was simply an idea, Phil. I have my best ones after a nap, and this meeting’s been dragging for hours.” Dijkstra folds his arms tight across his chest.

“You have my permission to take your leave then, if that’s what you need.” Philippa glances about the room. Sabrina looks eager for Dijkstra to go, but he remains seated. “All I ask is that we get through this final matter. Then we can retire for the evening.”

Triss nods and leans in, picking up where Philippa left off. “You recommend a measured pace. We've been over Vilgefortz’s notes at great length, so we'll do well to remember that's what they spoke of: a slow seizure of power.”

“Indeed.” Philippa looks to Triss, thankful for the assist. “I think we’re all agreed that his aims entwine the Brotherhood and the kingdoms throughout the Continent. From the North to the South. Whoever he manages to make his ally will be promising fealty to Emperor Emhyr.”

“Which is exactly why we need to expedite our timetable, while our allies are still uncorrupted,” Dijkstra grumbles, petulant.

“And how will we look, drawing first-blood?” Triss replies before Philippa can. “Waiting for Vilgefortz to put his own plan in motion allows us to take minimal damage in the way that matters most: public opinion. Who’s to be trusted in the aftermath of a conflict between mages? A violent coup to stop a coup we can only claim was imminent hardly sells. But a united Northern force to prevent a coup by defectors?”

“Wins the people’s love.” Philippa fights an impressed smile as she looks to Triss.

“So, we bide our time.” Keira Metz flickers into view.

“We bide our time,” Philippa clarifies. “But we remain vigilant. Vilgefortz clearly wants to remove Northern mages from the equation, whether by assimilation or by force. Sodden proved that even a handful of us is a sizable threat to Nilfgaard’s armies.”

“Then there’s nothing left to discuss. We take our time, do this carefully.” Sabrina stands from her chair, hands flattening the front of her dress as she does. “So, if that’s all—” She doesn’t wait for a response as she sweeps from the chamber. Eyeing Triss and Philippa warily, Dijkstra follows close behind.

The last to leave is Keira, the megascope pointed at her now-empty chair going quiet as she disappears into nothingness.

“Productive meeting,” Triss assesses, draping herself across Philippa’s lap once they’re alone. “Dijkstra may need to recalibrate his instincts here, however.”

Philippa strokes along her calf with a featherlight touch, lost in thought.

Triss leans in, kissing below her ear as she waits.

“I’m glad to have you here,” Philippa speaks finally, turning into Triss's kiss. “If only to compensate for the myriad ways in which Dijkstra _sucks.”_

“He does suck, doesn’t he,” Triss ponders with a laugh. “And could Sabrina be more obvious about her discomfort? It’s as if she can’t bear to be in a room with two women who don’t worship at the Temple of Penis.”

“Please, I know it’s true, but spare me having to actually hear it.”

* * *

“What about Francesca?” Keira puts forward. The megascope distorts her voice.

“We need mages we know are loyal to the North,” Philippa says, pacing behind her chair. “I’ve heard that the _Daisy of the Valleys_ is amassing an army of elven rebels. And I doubt their interests will align with ours.”

“As if they’ll get a better offer from Nilfgaard.”

“Won’t they?” Triss thinks of the North’s penchant for broken treaties and merciless pogroms. “We wouldn’t struggle for names if we hadn’t lost so many at Sodden. Vanielle, Coral…”

“Yennefer still hasn’t been found then,” Sabrina muses glumly.

When Triss doesn’t answer, Philippa steps in, words carefully weighed. “Not as of yet, no.”

Quiet settles heavily in the chamber until Keira sighs.

“I apologize for opening that particular can of worms, ladies, It’s hard to read the room from half a kingdom away.”

“We’ll rectify that soon enough.” Philippa’s pacing slows until she’s leaning against the high back of her chair.

She feels exhausted suddenly. Moonlight filters through the keep’s narrow windows. Their meetings had been stretching further into night, topics meandering and consensus forming at a snail’s pace. She’s ready for this particular meeting to end.

“About that. If I’m to someday attend these gatherings in person, there’s much I should know. To start, is there a dress code? Are shoes optional?”

Philippa pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closed. “Bareness of the foot is strictly forbidden on the grounds of Montecalvo. There will be no negotiating this fact.”

“Fine, fine. I was just asking,” Keira mutters, sinking lower into her seat.

“Besides the issue of Keira’s _freedom of expression,_ is there any other business?”

The meeting adjourns without fanfare.

* * *

One month passes. Then two. After the third, Sabrina returns to Kaedwen. She and Keira still attend meetings via megascope, and somehow, they coordinate schedules, iron out plans, and keep in touch despite the distance.

Dijkstra stays longer, traveling between Tretogor and Montecalvo. He and Philippa often lock themselves in her study, poring over reports their spies gather. Both for Redania and for their secret cause.

Triss lingers as well, Temeria feeling less like her true home with each passing day. When Dijkstra can muster the magnanimity to share their gracious host, she and Philippa analyze Vilgefortz’s documents, deciphering what they can until a clearer picture begins to form. If Vilgefortz is hunting them, he’s opting for a strategy that keeps him far away. Through Rita, they know he’s maintaining his charade with the Brotherhood, and through Keira, they know Fercart does his dirty work from the Temerian capital.

And by the end of Spring, Triss has burnt more letters from Jaskier than she’s written. Their correspondence is careful and cryptic, though she knows the other shoe will drop eventually.

When it does – in the form of a letter with a mysterious seal – Triss finds that homes are fickle things.

* * *

The grand dining hall at Montecalvo overlooks the keep’s luxuriant gardens. Dewy petals catch star and moonlight, glowing with such charm that Triss can hardly look away long enough to eat her dinner.

Still, a certain absence draws her attention.

“No Dijkstra tonight? I thought he was visiting from the palace.”

“He spontaneously decided to take his meal in his quarters for a change,” Philippa says breezily, clearly lying. She’d given him little choice in the matter. His cliterferences had long worn thin.

Pleased by that answer, Triss goes back to eating. Until a question strikes her. She sets aside her cutlery instead, brows furrowed.

“Do you ever imagine where we’ll be if we successfully pull off this mad plan of ours?”

Philippa chews thoughtfully before speaking. Triss watches her, feeling an odd mixture of nerves and hope. “I try not to be inflexible. I have an objective and a desire to accomplish it. The path there will change no matter how well we plan. So, where we’ll be, what we’ll do, is impossible to predict. Maybe we’ll be here, doing exactly this. Or maybe, because of a thousand unknowable factors, we’ll be in hiding, shamed for daring to do anything at all.” When Triss doesn’t immediately respond, Philippa reaches a hand across the finely-set table. “Where’s this coming from, Triss?”

“Consider Nilfgaard—”

“All I do is consider Nilfgaard.”

 _“Consider Nilfgaard,”_ Triss presses on, “and its devotion to Ithlinne’s Prophecy. An empire of true believers who are willing to fight a war over old elven words.”

“And the Elder Blood born anew.”

“Precisely. There’s a chance their faith is well-placed, at least in the ways they’ve been able to correctly interpret. And if it’s real, wouldn’t it make sense that destiny has a goal of its own? Charting a course that can’t be deviated from?” Triss's gaze drifts to the garden once more as she continues. “Forces greater than ours might dictate the outcome of this conflict and what the Continent looks like in its aftermath. I want us to consider that. Our flexibility should account for the possibility that we don’t get what we want. Not because we did anything wrong, but because we weren’t meant to.”

Philippa takes in her words. “How much power do we want to give a force beyond comprehension? Whose interference in the matters of men ebbs and flows? As women and _not_ men, might destiny not cut us some slack this once?”

“That logic certainly didn’t help Queen Calanthe,” Triss answers.

“Play foolish games, win foolish prizes, as the sages say. Cintra should have kept a court mage.”

“Now you sound like Stregobor.”

“As a favor to you, I’m going to pretend those words didn’t just leave your mouth,” Philippa says with a roll of her eyes.

Triss shakes her head. She pushes away from the table with a sigh. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to share. I might be off the grid for a while. Not yet, but soon. An old friend needs a helping hand.”

“You’ll be cutting things a little fine,” Philippa hums.

“It won’t interfere. Everything can and should proceed as planned.”

Philippa nods but says nothing, focus shifting conspicuously to her braised duck and half-empty glass of wine.

* * *

Despite the evening’s tension, they prepare for bed like usual – only now in silence. Triss sneaks glances at Philippa, perplexed by the lack of resistance or interest in specifics. She was leaving in the middle of planning a dangerous coup, a gamble for power… and Philippa only seemed to care that her duck had an adequate sear.

 _There’s more here to investigate,_ Triss realizes. So, she divests herself of the day’s jewelry and finery, and settles into her side of the too-large bed, covers pulled up to her chin. She watches discreetly as Philippa takes her merry time joining.

She disappears from view, returning after a while dressed in a simple nightshirt that stops mid-thigh. Padding across the lush, stately rug that covers much of the chamber’s stone floor, she pulls her hair into a loose braid, plaiting it with skilled fingers. Only then does she dim the lantern at her bedside, finally _– finally –_ sliding in beside Triss.

They lay there careful not to touch, though Triss wants to reach across the divide. She stays her hand, and it’s that distance that fits a simple fact into place.

“You never push me,” Triss observes quietly. “Never here, like this. Never in moments when I know you could.”

Philippa turns on her side, curious. She says nothing, wanting Triss to finish what she has to say.

“You know where I’ll be traveling?” Triss asks, a courtesy more than a question. It was foolish to think she could keep a secret from the most powerful information broker north of the Alba River.

“Yes. I have an idea.”

“And you haven’t pushed me to say more or act as your agent.”

“When we form our lodge, the expectations will change for us all. But for now, no.” Philippa exhales. “You’re a good person, Triss Merigold. A disappointingly uncommon trait. I can’t ask you to compromise the thing I respect most about you.”

Triss smiles with relief and leans into Philippa finally, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. And just like that, the space between them disappears.

As they press closer together, the unspoken reasons not to give into their yearning feel invalidated, antiquated in the face of their faith in one another.

Philippa brushes the hair from Triss's face, ghosting fingers along her jaw until she’s holding her chin. For that moment, they regard each other in darkness, the last of the lantern light fading. Then the pads of Philippa’s fingers trail lower to Triss's neck, faintly scarred. Lower still to her chest, covered by her chemise.

Triss sits up and pulls the sleeves of the shift down until she can slide it from her body and kick it away. She meets Philippa’s steady gaze bolder now, pupils blown. Philippa unbuttons her nightshirt until she can lift it over her head, letting it drop to the ground. Triss's eyes shift lower and lower until she can sense Philippa’s rapidly beating heart.

“Not bad for more than two hundred years old,” she offers with a glint in her eye.

Philippa sighs, holding in her laugh. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“No, but this is different.” Triss whispers, warm hand resting against Philippa’s side, holding her there. “Can I?”

“Why?” Philippa’s words are soft and low to match – softer and lower as Triss presses her mouth to Philippa’s clavicle, to her breast, to her shoulder, up until lips rest against the shell of her ear.

“Because I want to.”

“Then yes, you can.”

All at once, that sun-kissed morning on Sodden Hill feels near enough to touch.

* * *

Summer

* * *

Beltane leaves a sticky mugginess in its wake, felt even high in the Kestrel Mountains.

Dijkstra dabs his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief while Triss fans herself. The high neck of her blouse feels damn near suffocating.

Philippa wears her linen shirt unbuttoned to a point Triss can scarcely handle, collar open to reveal the elegant lines of her collarbone and neck. Her sleeves are rolled past her elbows. And she’s clearly resolved not to let the heat win.

Their day will be productive come hell or high water.

With little strain in her voice, Philippa leans over the round table covered in maps and important documents, speaking as she reads the nearest list of names and key locations. “What about Julia Abatemarco?”

Plans were shaping up nicely and allies were being recruited carefully to the North’s side.

“Pretty Kitty? Imprisoned in Kovir. Beyond our reach for now,” Dijkstra sighs.

“A shame. She’d be a valuable resource to us.”

“And I’m sure you’re thinking of her sword hand when you say that.”

“Is she beautiful then?” Triss laughs, watching the red creep up Dijkstra’s neck.

“Deadly skill with a blade can be its own sort of beauty,” Philippa answers with a quirk of her lips.

Triss looks on appreciatively. She could relate to the sentiment. “Hear, hear.”

“We wouldn’t be able to offer her amnesty on behalf of King Vizimir even if we could reach her,” Dijkstra offers quickly, before he loses them. “Not while bullshit peace talks are ongoing.”

 _“Give us all your land if you want peace,”_ Philippa mocks. “It’s more of a threat than a serious proposition of terms. Do your spies in the Nilfgaardian emissary’s envoy know when this charade will end?”

“You’d be the first to know if I did, Phil.”

“Dijkstra,” Triss cuts in. “Has Fringilla been seen at these talks? I’d expect her to be the loudest voice there.”

“Asking the right questions indeed, Miss Merigold. We’ll make a spy of you yet. Alas, no. She’s been missing since the grand battle. As likely to be locked away by Emhyr as she is to be dead, one must fear.”

Triss frowns. “I want to feel sympathy for her, but—”

“But _fuck her,”_ Philippa supplies, placing a comforting hand on Triss's shoulder. “I think we should end the day early. Find a way to cool down.” Triss perks up at her words and practically floats to the heavens when she continues: “We’ll see you for dinner, Dijkstra. Or not.”

He grumbles his assent, too defeated by the heat to muster the strength to protest.

* * *

They decide to spend their afternoon exploring the mountainside, sheltered under the shade of trees.

Philippa knows of a tarn beyond the keep’s grounds that’s worth the hike, and the prospect of a swim is enough to convince Triss to ditch her fancy gowns for more practical attire.

“We need to outfit you properly.”

“Dress me then, if you’re the expert.”

“I am, and as the expert between us, I highly recommend a pair of breeches. Preferably with a breathable fabric.”

“Mmm,” Triss hums, head tilted in consideration as they stand in Philippa’s dressing room. “I concur. Now, shirts.”

“Of course.”

“One of yours, obviously.”

 _“Obviously.”_ Philippa smirks, hands clasped behind her back as she watches Triss make her careful selection.

“This one.” Triss reaches into Philippa’s open wardrobe, pulling out her favorite of the arming doublets. It’s a relatively light but structured garment she wears around their shared chambers on lazy mornings, only ever loosely tied at the chest.

“Might be long in the sleeves, but that’s a simple fix. The wonders of magical hemming.”

“Tissaia wouldn’t be pleased. Such a frivolous use of chaos when we’re learned women.”

Philippa simply shrugs. “Fine ladies or not, I won’t be touching a sewing needle. Will you?”

“Absolutely not,” Triss laughs.

With a snap of Philippa’s fingers, the sleeves of the doublet rip apart and mend themselves, discarded fabric falling to the ground. 

The flowers in a nearby vase wilt until they’re a shriveled pile of dead petals.

* * *

They set out after lunch with light packs. Philippa leads the way, pointing out the types of birds calling from the Redanian Pine above. Montecalvo’s avian biodiversity is renowned: kestrels, thrushes, the odd eagle, and more.

Triss returns the favor by identifying the woodland flora she recognizes. It’s calming, and Triss wonders if there’s another person she can imagine herself with in this way.

The truth, she finds, is that there isn’t. Not one who’ll spend hours discussing the symbiotic relationship between plants and animals, letting Triss go on tangents about the medicinal properties of this or that moss.

By the time they reach the tarn, they’re ready for a cool dip. There’s a grassy clearing by the bank where they dump their bags and strip down to nothing. It’s an easy choice surrounded by nature; their only company are birds, bugs, and the critters too scared to draw near.

Once they’ve had their fill of swimming, they lay exhausted on a blanket to share.

Before long, a stray hand on a lower back leads to a kiss at the nape of a neck, which inevitably leads to more, heat be damned.

“Spit in my mouth,” Triss pants from underneath Philippa. Her chest rises and falls quickly and there’s a desperate edge to her words.

“What? No.” Philippa is caught off guard. Her hand between their bodies goes still.

“Why not?”

“It’s neither appetizing nor sanitary.”

“We kiss. It’s too late to worry about what’s sanitary.” Triss's own hand comes up to grip Philippa’s arm where it’s braced above her shoulder. She turns to kiss the soft skin there. Philippa isn’t swayed by her cuteness.

“I’d rather spit in the mouth of my enemy,” Philippa states in the flattest tone Triss has ever heard in the middle of sex.

“You’d waste perfectly good spit on your enemy when I’m here asking for it? Bye.” Triss moves to get up, only half serious.

 _“Wait…_ Fine.” Philippa sighs so deeply that Triss almost feels bad for having asked.

Then Philippa’s hand starts moving again.

As if in apology for making Triss wait, she begins pressing kisses to her chest, up to her neck, until she reaches her lips. “Open your mouth.”

Later, as they pull their clothes back on under the waning afternoon sun, Philippa nudges Triss with her shoulder. She’s laughing and flushed. “What ever happened to ‘never in our long, long lives’ _blah blah blah.”_

“Two women can swap a little spit, as a treat.” Underscoring this, Triss steals a kiss before Philippa can get another word in. There is tongue. It is wet. Philippa does not complain.

They hike back down to the keep, hand in hand.

* * *

Summer becomes something of an experiment in discovery: how much time can they spend together before they’re sick of the other’s presence? That point they’re so sure will come never does. Instead, they work closely, happily, to oversee final touches on their plans. Contingencies, exit strategies, best and worst-case scenarios.

Dijkstra comes and goes, ever the loyal servant to his betters. Sometimes Philippa joins him in court at King Vizimir’s request, but her base of operations has always been Montecalvo. Her agents send and receive information from the castle’s rookery, seeing Philippa’s and the kingdom’s will done at the speed of a homing pigeon.

Triss observes their system with wonder. Temeria feels backward to her suddenly, as if power held absolutely by a king is a poor alternative to the brain trust ensuring Redania’s prosperity. As irritating as Dijkstra is, she witnesses his value time and again, and he and Philippa together are a duo to envy.

Her grudging respect for what he brings to the table is one she’ll take with her to the grave, never admitting aloud. His head doesn’t need to be any larger than it already is.

* * *

Triss leaving sneaks up on them at the end of summer. She’s determined to go, and Philippa’s determined not to ask her to stay.

There are things they know better than to discuss so close to Triss leaving, facets of their relationship that need to be wound down rather than built up into something more difficult to relinquish.

Still, something shifts. And Triss can’t resist the desire to find solid ground.

“What do you get out of this?” Triss asks carefully, laying naked across their bed in a patch of warm morning light.

“You mean this thing we haven’t put a name to?” Philippa hums, eyes closed.

 _Yes,_ Triss thinks to herself, wondering if it’s possible to describe. Sharing a bed, fighting side by side, investigating and surviving in every corner of the Continent as a team. And still, Triss can’t shake the feeling they’re approaching an end point. In no time at all, their paths will split off from one another.

She needs to know if Philippa is wondering too. “We’ve been inseparable for I don’t know how long now, and not once have I wanted to leave your side. Maybe I’m wrong, but I suspect you haven’t wanted to leave mine either. Why is that?”

“Because you’re very pretty,” Philippa replies easily. She peeks at Triss with a half-smile.

Triss purses her lips, wanting to smile back. However, she’s not willing to give in just yet.

“And what else?”

Philippa sighs, nose scrunching as she speaks. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Go on. I won’t tell anyone you’re a sap.”

“Very well, since I’m in such safe hands,” Philippa continues gamely, adjusting her position in bed until she’s comfortable. “I’ve been surrounded by incompetent idiots for most of my life. It’s what they don’t tell you before you commit yourself to the Brotherhood and a career serving kings and queens who – by virtue of their privilege, inbreeding, and relatively short life spans – will never be as brave or as wise as their people need to believe. So, we advise them as best we can, fighting their battles and cleaning up their messes.

“We do this for decades, moving from one post to the next, sometimes fitting in research for the Chapter or service on the Council. Still, we long for connection – for love. And at that, we fail often and miserably. The wisest among us offer compelling arguments as to why. _Our focus must be balance, reining in chaos and kings–”_

Triss holds back a laugh. Philippa’s snotty, mocking impression of Tissaia is unmistakable.

“Reflecting on this,” Philippa pauses a moment to consider her next words, knowing they’re important, “I began to question, and just as I was questioning truths that had once guided me, I met you. Brave from the very first. Fiercely beautiful and fiercely intelligent. You’re practically the only person I can stand to be around, let alone travel with. Thankfully, you seem to tolerate me.”

Triss grins finally, unable to hold herself back as she leans into Philippa, stealing a soft kiss.

Philippa looks upon Triss with all the solemn gentleness befitting their lazy morning. Her next words are quiet. “I don’t know what to call this either, but I do know that I’d like our goodbyes to be temporary things, come what may. How does that sound?”

“Very agreeable,” Triss answers before stealing yet another kiss that Philippa is more than happy to give.

* * *

Fall

* * *

“To summarize, Vilgefortz is up to something. Absent from Aretuza. The hours away can’t be accounted for,” Philippa reads from a piece of parchment by candlelight. “Do we have our agents trailing him, Dijkstra?”

“…In a sense.”

 _“No._ Absolutely not.”

“Yes.”

“Someone fill me in, please,” Triss sighs.

“Jaskier,” Philippa supplies, voice cold.

Dijkstra nods, rubbing at his chin. “Think of him as bait.”

“Fine.” Philippa waves the topic away, sick of it already. She picks up another document, passing it along to Triss who glances at it before passing it on to Dijkstra. “What’s more pressing is that the elven rebels, now known as scoia’tael, have unofficially sided with Nilfgaard. Not a surprise, but a development we need to stay mindful of; guerilla tactics are always underestimated.”

Dijkstra makes a note, drumming his fingers.

“And there’s something else.” Philippa glances to Triss. “Someone spotted Yennefer at their side. The circumstances aren’t yet known, but for now we can be sure she and Fringilla both traveled amongst the elves for a time.”

“She’s alive?” Triss sits back, stunned. She never accepted the possibility of Yennefer’s death, but to finally – without question – know that she survived…

“She defected?” Dijkstra scowls.

“No,” Philippa holds up a hand. “She seemed to be a prisoner. Injured, but yes, alive. My guess is Fringilla teleported her away from the battlefield at Sodden against her will.”

“Where is she now?” Triss asks, eager. 

“Unknown, but we should take this for the good news it is,” Philippa says, squeezing Triss's shoulder. She looks over at an upturned hourglass on the table, the last grains of sand slipping from one chamber into the other. “Are we finished?”

“There are a few items I’d like to go over still,” Dijkstra says, steepling his fingers as if he doesn’t know what tonight is.

“You’re welcome to,” Triss stands from her chair, “but I should turn in. Dijkstra, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Likewise, Triss.”

“Philippa?”

“I’ll walk you,” Philippa promises before turning to Dijkstra with narrowed eyes – ever the saboteur. “If we’re to drag this out, I’ll need wine. And a freshly stoked fire.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Dijkstra dips his chin with a smirk.

* * *

Triss sits at Philippa’s vanity in just her chemise, carefully removing jewelry. A low fire burns, close enough to warm her but far away enough not to cause a bother.

Philippa watches on, leaning against the doorway nearby. She wants to remember this, to stay in this moment for as long as she can. But Dijkstra waits, and he’s not wrong: there’s much still to do.

“Get some rest, Triss. If you wait up, you’ll be exhausted tomorrow,” Philippa says, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head from behind. They make a handsome pair, reflected attractively in the mirror atop the vanity.

Triss frowns and tugs Philippa down into her lap, looping her arms around her waist.

“Dijkstra’s waiting in the study.” Philippa pulls away, though her attempt is half-hearted at best.

“And? It’s my last night.”

Philippa twists in Triss's lap, settling against her with her arms draped over her shoulders. Her voice is quiet. “This is really how you want to spend it?”

“Sometimes I’m _shocked_ you’ve ever fucked,” Triss breathes against her mouth. She runs her fingers through Philippa’s long, loose hair. Magically never tangled, always unfairly beautiful.

“I’d be insulted if I didn’t know better.” Philippa is unbothered and unmoved by Triss's words, focused instead on the feeling of her hands.

She closes the distance between their lips.

* * *

It’s past midnight when Philippa sits up against their headboard to catch her breath.

Sweat prickles at her chest in the cool night air, and she wonders why she ever agreed to let Triss go if it means she won’t feel _this_ again for months.

Triss is drifting to sleep, soft and satisfied while Philippa watches on, fingers tracing her jaw, her full lips, along the bridge of her freckled nose, until she’s brushing back the curls falling over her closed eyes.

“May I return to my study now?” Philippa asks in a whisper. Deep down she knows there isn’t a chance she leaves this bed.

“No,” comes Triss's drowsy reply after a moment. “To hell with Dijkstra.”

Philippa smiles faintly.

After tomorrow, they’ll be apart for months, and when they’re reunited, the time after will be tumultuous and uncertain. Few moments will be as calm as this one.

She shifts lower in bed, wrapping an arm around Triss. She presses her lips to the flushed skin of her neck. Triss breathes out, peaceful, and settles against Philippa’s warmth.

* * *

Triss leaves early the next morning before the sun rises. She packs a horse with everything she’ll need to travel the many miles east.

Philippa helps her onto the saddle, squeezes her hand, and steps away.

There’s no grand goodbye. Only a small wave as Triss looks back just before disappearing beyond Montecalvo’s ivy and stone walls.

* * *

Philippa and Dijkstra fall back into their old routine of working together amiably. Redania is stronger when they’re of one mind, they both know this to be true, and Philippa is glad for the ease with which they acclimate. 

Then Dijkstra opens his corpulent mouth, having intercepted a letter intended for Triss from Jaskier. He slips the note across Philippa’s desk, into her line of sight.

“She’s going to the witcher. Likely even seeing the girl.”

“Thank you for this fresh intel.” Philippa doesn’t look up from the document she’s reading. The letter goes ignored.

“You knew,” Dijkstra accuses with a sneer.

Philippa hums affirmatively.

“And you didn’t enchant some kind of tracker?”

With a sigh, she looks up. “Of course not. She’s an incredibly powerful sorceress who would have sensed it immediately. Even if she wasn’t, she’s allowed this. We’ll have Cirilla in due time.”

“What is she _allowed_ exactly? This is our best chance of finding the princess and you’re fine letting it slip through our grasp. Your judgment is clouded, Phil, just as I knew it would be.”

Philippa stalks from behind her desk. When she speaks, her words are measured but lethal.

“Were you at Sodden? Did you lay your life on the line for these Northern Kingdoms you serve with such unremitting loyalty? Did you watch friends – comrades you’d known for decades – perish horribly before your eyes?”

“You know I was in Cintra. On the orders of our king.”

“Only because you weren’t of use anywhere else. You can barely swing a sword. She’s a hero of Sodden. Mind yourself.”

“Oh, Lady Philippa,” he mocks. “Your sudden sentimentality is unbecoming.”

Philippa takes a breath, turning to the cabinet she keeps stocked with spirits. She retrieves two glasses, fills them with amber liquid and gestures for Dijkstra to take a seat in one of the large tufted chairs in her study.

“Sit.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he does. She hands him a glass then takes the seat across from his.

“We need loyal allies for what comes next, Dijkstra. Don’t you see the benefit of making allowances just this once? Finding Cirilla is important, _yes._ But having the force to stand against Vilgefortz when the time comes takes priority. Surely a brilliant tactician such as yourself sees the wisdom in not burning this bridge.”

Dijkstra rubs a hand over his face, shakes his head, then takes a long sip to drain his glass. “Start with that next time.”

Philippa leans back in her chair, gaze focused on the large window of the study. Outside, clouds block the sun and violent winds whip the trees.

She wonders where Triss is, what sights she’s seeing and how she’s faring on her journey. There’s no point in worrying; Triss can take care of herself.

Still, the old witchers’ keep is nestled among untamed peaks, and if Triss has never been before, teleporting is more suicidal guesswork than science. She’ll have to brave the treacherous mountain trails as any mortal would.

She sighs and looks back at Dijkstra. “We can sulk for a while longer before getting back to work or we can play a game of knucklebones. Pick your poison.”

“More of whatever this is,” he taps a finger to his empty glass, “and knucklebones, if you please.”

“The thinking man’s choice.” Philippa says with a nod before drawing herself up.

* * *

Winter

* * *

Somewhere in the snowy Blue Mountains, destiny calls.

A cloaked woman rides along a forest path.

“Getting cold, are you, girl? Reminds me of someone else I know,” Triss whispers fondly.

She presses a gloved hand to the stubborn gelding she rides, breathing out an incantation that just barely catches on the wind. Her simple spell works wonders, and her mount relaxes into a trot.

Triss's breath meets the air in clouds of mist, and she wonders for a moment if this is where she’s meant to be.

How odd it still feels to be on her own after months of pleasant companionship. She would be a fool not to miss it.

But there was no going back – not yet.

So, she thinks instead of Geralt. Jaskier’s closest friend, Yennefer’s secret love, her one-time ally in lifting curses and freeing princesses.

How right it is, then, that they meet again to protect another. Still, she wonders if she’s up to the task. There are stronger sorceresses – Yennefer even, wherever she is now – better suited to training a powerful source. A girl witcher in a den of wolves.

She sighs, coming upon a quiet ravine. A long log sits just over the trail ahead.

Right before her eyes, a wild blur of ashen hair streaks across.

* * *

_“I wanted to question what a happy ending is. We have the romantic-comedy philosophy – a frozen image of two people being together – and we also have the tragic ending. And I wanted neither. Why do we believe that eternal possession of somebody means a happy ending? Love educates us about art. Art consoles us from lost love. Our great loves are a condition of our future love. The film is the memory of a love story; it’s sad but also full of hope.”_

_\- Céline Sciamma_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. Thanks for taking this ride!
> 
> And thank you, Stew, for helping this story along. It wouldn't be half of what it is without your genius influence and editing 


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